


Laurëlot

by hennethgalad



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 91,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: who is Glorfindel, that Nazgul flee him ?
 these are episodes from his life, and from his love for Finrod.





	1. Little Gold Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel and his family meet Celegorm.

   
<https://hennethgalad.tumblr.com/post/177527650931>

 

Glorfindel woke to the sound of his father singing gaily, his mother serenely harmonising. He could hear his older sister giggling as they sang the romantic lyrics. He leapt out of bed and pulled on his loose breeches and an old tunic, and ran through the house. They were in the hallway, waiting with smiles. 

  
 'Do not forget your shoes.' said his father in a mock-stern voice, and they all laughed, remembering the time an impatient young Glorfindel had set off on the morning run with bare feet, and had to be sent back to finish dressing.  
 'Do not be hasty !' they all chorused, laughing. 

Outside, the air was warm and silvery, Laurelin rested, and Telperion waxed. The garden was full of the bright, vivid flowers of Valinor, and sweet with their fragrances. Glorfindel smiled with happiness and stretched his arms above his head, hearing his back click. He considered more exercise, he seemed to be always on the move, but still was not strong enough to meet his own expectations. His father ran on the spot for a moment, then looked around at them.  
 'Are we ready ? Good, then let us begin.' he smiled at Glorfindel 'Slowly at first !' he laughed.

 They ran down the rutted drive to the gate and turned into the overgrown lane that the feet of his parents, then later the whole family, had worn into the countryside. Fruit trees overhung them, providing shelter from the occasional rain. Butterflies of every imaginable colour danced in the air, while the purposeful bees hovered over the blooms, and flew their orderly lines to and fro.

 At first the only sounds were the birds and insects, but after a while Glorfindel's father began to sing again. His voice was good, but when the words were emotional, he would lose the note as he sought to convey the emotion. It had been his dream, when first arrived in Valinor, to join one of the great Choirs, perhaps even that of Varda herself, but his tendency to become involved in the emotions had thwarted him. Now he tended his orchards and sang only for his children and his beloved golden wife.

 But as they ran, they scrutinised the soil, the trees of the orchards, the weather, and the hundred small signs of the wildlife, to guard the health of the plants, and of themselves. Glorfindel could easily tell that his father was pleased, but his mother, as usual, merely smiled quietly as she ran, her long plait, like his own, swaying and bouncing with the motion. As they ran by the Small Stream, she gestured at the thick green foliage growing in the clear shallows.  
 'Watercress soup tonight, if you take Celegorm with you to gather some, Glorfindel.'

 His father stopped in his tracks, his mother ran a few steps then faltered and turned back. His sister, further ahead, stopped to wait for them. Glorfindel looked from one parent to another.  
 'Celegorm, son of Fëanor, is coming here ?' he asked finally. His father was looking disappointed, his mother apologetic.

Finally she spoke aloud.  
  'I am sorry, my love, I know that you wished to surprise Glorfindel.'  
His father smiled regretfully 'I am sure that he is surprised now.' he turned to Glorfindel 'Yes, young Celegorm has been sent by his mother to learn the ways of plants. I hope that you will take him with you as you go about, and show him how we live, and answer his questions as best you can.'  
 Glorfindel looked a little alarmed 'But father, I do not know the plants as you do ! Why, even my sister is more learned than I on these matters, surely...' he faltered. His parents were looking at each other with smiles. His mother spoke.   
 'Yes, we hope that your attempts to explain to Celegorm will be beneficial in your own education. Of course you must ask us any questions which you need answering, and refer to the books of lore when in doubt. But we are confident that you can at least show Celegorm which plants are harmful and to be avoided.'

 Glorfindel spent the first hours weeding in the herb garden with his mother. The high walls kept the wind out, in the peaceful green silence he felt at ease, and let his thoughts drift into dreams of the future. His mother's soft voice woke him from reverie.  
 'My dear son, I would offer some advice.'  
Glorfindel looked at her in surprise, she so rarely spoke at all, and almost never gave instruction. Her preferred method was merely to do whatever she wished to have done until the eager mimicry of the child inspired Glorfindel to wish to copy her, or at least to join in.

Her deep blue eyes looked thoughtfully at him.  
 'You are young, and so is Celegorm, but unlike you, Celegorm has anger in him. He has inherited his father's temper, but not his patience. You will have heard these things already, but I would remind you of them again. I advise that you display patience, and show him that haste is the most dangerous plant of all, and it grows within us all.'  
 'The swifter the mind, the hastier the deed.' answered Glorfindel.  
His mother nodded 'His mind is swift indeed, but I am told that if he has made his mind up, he will not be dissuaded; which can be admirable, unless the thought was careless and hasty, in which case stubbornly clinging to error becomes a trouble.'

 They ate the midday meal together in the large kitchen, rich with the smells of cooking; his sister had made a hearty stew with thyme dumplings. Glorfindel found himself distracted by thoughts of the arrival of Celegorm, whom he had only ever seen at a distance. Clever but impatient, he sounded difficult to get along with, and Glorfindel was expected to teach him. He stared unseeingly out of the window, eating absent-mindedly, lost in thought.  
  His tactful parents left him in peace, though after they had eaten his father spoke softly to his mother.  
 'You were right to tell him, he does need time to prepare his mind. I admit that I had underestimated him. Perhaps I mistook him altogether. I believe you have made his life so happy that he has never had cause for anger or even fear. But I had thought him carelessly spontaneous and in need of steadying; not from the influence of Celegorm, but in reaction to it.'  
 His wife shook her head 'Not I, my love, but you, are the one who has made this home happy. Your singing would bring joy to Varda...'   
 They laughed together, but she spoke again 'He takes after you, my dear, in concealing his subtlety behind laughter and song.'

  
 After lunch Glorfindel took a copy of 'The Plants of Valinor', and some grapes, with him out to the chestnut tree overlooking the North Road out of Tirion to wait for Celegorm. He was rereading the chapter on vines when the solitary figure appeared, striding briskly up the low hill. He closed the book, spat out a seed and peered through the thick green leaves.

  
 Celegorm was tall and broad, with long legs and long fair hair that seemed to drift around his head in the light wind as though he were underwater.  
 Glorfindel looked at the stump of a recently fallen branch; the heartwood of the chestnut had the same pale-brown colour as Celegorm's hair, both with the faintest tinge of red to warm them. He smiled, tucked the book under one arm and swung down to greet Celegorm.  
 They liked each other on sight, both were large, handsome and athletic. Celegorm smiled warmly as they stood appraising each other, admiring themselves reflected in each other, each thinking themselves the finest type of Elf. Glorfindel remembered his manners.

  
 'Do I have the honour to address Celegorm, son of Fëanor ? Welcome to Little Gold Tree, I am called Glorfindel.' he put his hand on his chest and bowed, Celegorm echoed the formal gesture. They looked at each other again, then Celegorm grinned  
 'I hope that your wine is as good as your food, for by Yavanna, this walk has given me a mighty thirst !'  
 Glorfindel looked surprised 'You have tasted our food ?'  
 Celegorm laughed at the stupefied expression on Glorfindel's face.  
 'Are you truly unaware that your farm supplies the House of Finwë ?'

  
 Glorfindel nodded silently, round-eyed in awe. His own sister, who seemed to be always laughing and joking as she whirled around the kitchen, had been preparing meals for the king and his family all this time, and nobody had even told him. He felt hurt and excluded, he looked away from Celegorm and frowned. Celegorm considered commenting, but decided that from an outsider, however helpful, whatever he said would be considered as interference. He adjusted his small pack and said with a laugh  
 'I challenge you to a race, from here to the door of your house.'  
 Glorfindel grinned at him 'You are my guest, I shall carry your pack for you, and still outpace you.'  
 'Ho ! An athlete ! Very well, here, take it, though never underestimate the sons of Fëanor.'  
Their sparkling eyes met, and they darted away.

 Glorfindel, who had never lost a race, was astonished anew to see Celegorm keeping up with him. They were already halfway down the drive, he tried to run faster, but still Celegorm kept pace. Glorfindel gritted his teeth, his heart was hammering, his lungs burned as they gasped for breath. He stretched his legs to lengthen his stride, they were almost there, the pack battered into his spine, hammering him with every step, his whole body was covered with sweat, his leg muscles were on fire, he gasped and lunged forward to touch the door, the hand of Celegorm, a mere half second later, slammed onto the door beside him.   
 Glorfindel heaved in a great breath, turned to lean his back against the door and sank to the porch before his trembling knees betrayed him. Celegorm, gasping for breath, slid down beside him. They looked narrowly into each other's eyes, then burst out laughing. Behind them the door opened, and they fell backwards into the hall, laughing so hard that they could scarcely breathe. 

 But when they had bathed and eaten, Glorfindel spoke to his father.  
 'Why did you not tell me that we supply the House of Finwë ?'  
His father bowed his head slightly, then looked at his mother. His mother pursed her lips, a strange wistful expression in her eyes.  His father sighed and crossed the room to the bookshelf. He took down the current order-book and brought it to the table. He sighed again as he laid it before Glorfindel 

  
 'I am afraid that your mother was right, my dear son, you will never be contented here at Little Gold Tree. I am saddened, of course, but your life is your own, you must do as you choose. I had not given up hope, until this very instant. It is clear that you have never even glanced at this book in an idle moment.'  
 Glorfindel felt a choking sensation in his throat, his heart pained him. He opened the book at random and his guilt was clear, for on every page, in his mother's clear hand, 'House of Finwë, House of Fëanor, House of Fingolfin....' betrayed his indifference.

  
 He looked at his mother in dismay 'Does this mean that I must leave ?'  
His mother's face twisted through a swift series of expressions, he fleetingly saw the maternal amusement, the love and pity, and the orderly mind seeking words to clarify.  
 'Oh Glorfindel, of course you must stay or go as you please. You might find you wish to accomplish some worthy task that may be carried out in the comfort of your own home, and of course this will always be your own home. But I think you will find that your restlessness takes you out into the world, and that you will leave here sooner than you expect.'  
 Glorfindel shook his head vehemently   
 'No, mother, and father, I could never leave you, or my dear sister, or our beloved farm. Everything is perfect ! Why would I wish to leave ?'  
 His parents smiled lovingly at each other, and their hands met and clasped 'Everything is perfect.' said his mother softly.

 Celegorm, who had been silent for some time, cleared his throat  
 'I am sorry if I appear intrusive, but may I speak ?'  
They looked at him expectantly. He cleared his throat again, then smiled to reassure them, and himself. 'In Tirion I am accounted one of the finest athletes. I have won many races. Yet here today, Glorfindel, carrying my pack, beat me in a race. Your farm produces more than good food, you have produced a very good athlete. With proper training, he may even become a great athlete. To keep him here would be to deprive him, and all the Elves who care about such things, of the inspiration of athletic attainment.'

 

  In the golden light of Laurelin, with the fresh north wind lifting their hair, Glorfindel took Celegorm to gather watercress, wicker baskets in hand. After a time Celegorm began to whistle, his voice was true and the melody, though unfamiliar, was haunting. Glorfindel paused and said

  
 'May I ask what tune you are singing ?'  
Celegorm smiled proudly 'My brother Maglor made it, it is called 'Diamond Dust.' Though personally ' he lowered his voice 'I find the diamond dust irritating beyond measure. It gets everywhere, it is sharp and abrasive, and if you ever get a cut, it gets inside it and makes it worse. ' he shrugged 'That is one of the reasons why I wish to follow in the train of Oromë, and leave the city. '  
 'The melody is beautiful, may I ask that you sing it for us ? My father is especially fond of music, and I know that we all love your brother's songs. It would bring us joy to hear a new tune of his.'  
 'I would be delighted to share my brother's work with you.' Celegorm laughed 'If it were not for the Silmarils, Maglor would be the toast of my family. Alas, I myself have the imagination of a rock, and the musical ability of a stone. But I am good with animals; almost all creatures seem to like me. '

 Glorfindel felt the regret in Celegorm; music was life for many Elves, and those like his father and Celegorm, whose aspirations far outstripped their abilities, left him choked with pity. He sought a way to change the mood of Celegorm as they reached the first of the peach trees. A cluster of particularly tempting fruits hung over the path, he reached up and swung the branch down and gestured to Celegorm, who picked a couple with an eager smile. As they bit into the sweet peaches, Glorfindel noticed the yellowfish mushrooms growing on the tree. He smiled to himself, here was the perfect opportunity to assess the knowledge of Celegorm.

 'Do you see that mushroom ? Do you know whether it can be eaten ?' he asked.  
Celegorm snorted 'Nobody eats yellowfish, they are edible but bitter, they will not harm you. I have long known all that I would know of plants, my interest is in animals. I do not know why my mother has sent me here, perhaps she wishes to impress Oromë, but I really do not see what I can learn from a farm boy.' he glanced at Glorfindel  and wiped peach juice from his chin with a careless hand. 

 Glorfindel took out a cloth and wiped his own face and hands, dismayed and insulted by the dismissive tone in the voice of Celegorm. He was about to indignantly defend the work of the farm, when the thought of his dear family, all saying "do not be hasty", floated before his mind. He paused to think, throwing his peach stone far out into the meadow, where a loose straggle of uncultivated peach trees of varying ages marked the times when others had stood eating under this prized tree, and cast their stones into the wild. He was comforted by the sight, and by the familiar thought that some of those stones had been thrown by he himself; and the glow of the warmth of home cleared his mind.  
   
 He thought of Nerdanel the Wise, wife of Fëanor and mother of Maglor. The idea of her trying to 'impress' Oromë by wasting her son's time made no sense. She had kept harmony among her seven passionate, headstrong sons, her subtlety was legendary. He wondered why Celegorm had been sent to Little Gold Tree, and wondered what, if anything, Oromë himself would think. He had a sudden vision of the world from the perspective of a Vala like Oromë, to whom Elves must seem like cats did to Elves, running about underfoot mewling in high-pitched voices.

 A thought began to form in his mind, he stood as still as a tree; Celegorm was looking curiously at him, but he tried to empty his mind, letting his awareness of the orchard fill him. He thought of ents, the great obsession of his mother, who had known many when she had served Yavanna in her youth. He tried to feel the sturdy tenacity of the tree, the roots gripping the soil like toes, the branches outstretched to bask in the Light; he wondered at the ephemeral grasses, the fleeting flowers, rushing through life in the blink of an Elven eye, and he thought he could understand the intention of Nerdanel the Wise.

 'I wonder, then,' he said to Celegorm at last 'Whether your mother did not send you here to alter your perspective.'   
 Celegorm frowned 'Alter my... do you presume to criticise me, farm boy ? Do you forget who I am ? Perhaps she sent me here to teach you a lesson !'  
 He glared at Glorfindel, who frowned. They faced each other like cats before a fight. Glorfindel felt his fists clench, his heart raced steadily in his chest, he felt cool, tense but remote, he had not been attacked in anger since the brawls of his childhood. But he could feel the heaviness in the air between them like a hot dry breath of wind, his own breathing was almost audible as his body prepared itself for the attacker. The enemy... He felt that his initial delight in Celegorm had turned to an almost instinctive disdain. He looked again at the yellowfish mushrooms, whose delicious appearance contrasted so starkly with their slimy texture and bitter taste. Celegorm, he thought, slimy and bitter...

  His amusement showed on his face, Celegorm became enraged, he snarled, saliva hung dripping between the teeth in his upper and lower jaws, he threw himself onto Glorfindel and wrestled him to the ground. The fight was brief, for though Celegorm was as fit as any canditate for the train of Oromë the hunter, Glorfindel had laboured on the farm every day of his life, and was not merely as large as Celegorm, but also well-knit and sturdy; his work-hardened muscles swiftly overpowered Celegorm, and pressed his face into the dust of the road.

 'You will now apologise.' said Glorfindel flatly. Celegorm made a final effort to free himself, but Glorfindel had twisted his arm, and the movement made Celegorm's breath hiss with pain. Glorfindel loosened his grip a little, but did not move. There was a silence. Glorfindel could feel the lithe body rigid under him, and despite his animosity, now turning into loathing, he felt desire. He knew then beyond doubt that for him, the beauty of the male was his heart's desire, and that unless something altogether extraordinary happened, he would be leaving the farm, and never returning with a wife and child, to build a home of his own nearby.  
 Celegorm had felt the change in Glorfindel and struggled anew, but there was no shifting the rock-like grip. He sighed and lowered his head to the ground.   
 'Very well, I apologise, only get off me, for Eru's sake !'

 Glorfindel leaped to his feet and brushed the dust from knees and elbows. Celegorm was in a sorrier state, his tunic was torn and filthy, his lip had split, blood trickled down his chin, his disordered hair was thick with dust. He shook his head vigorously and brushed angrily at his ruined tunic. Glorfindel tried successfully not to laugh, but he could not suppress his attraction. Celegorm had inherited much of the beauty of his father, blended with the appearance of the serenity that his wise mother personified; he was strikingly handsome. Glorfindel gritted his teeth and knew that it was time to leave his perfect home, and seek out someone as beautiful as the slimy Celegorm, but someone that he actually liked. 

  
  Glorfindel's sister looked at them in astonishment when they returned, she immediately sent Celegorm to wash and change. When Glorfindel had explained himself, she set him to chopping onions. They worked in silence for a while, she did not even sing, and Glorfindel felt her disappointment, though he did not see what else he could have done. Finally, hurt by what he saw as her lack of support, he changed the unspoken subject.  
 'Does every recipe use onions ? You do seem to always be chopping them up.'  
She paused in her stirring and tilted her head thoughtfully   
 'You may be right, I cannot think of a savoury dish without onions. There are meals, as it were, that do not contain them, but any kind of soup, stew, sauce...' she paused 'No, then, I would say not. Onions are in everything. '   
 Glorfindel sighed and peeled the next onion. His sister moved the pan to the back of the range and washed her hands. He chopped in silence and did not look up as she moved about the kitchen. But moments later a tall goblet of his favourite wine appeared on the table in front of him. He paused and looked up at her kind face, her sympathetic smile warmed his heart.  
   
'We may be unusually lucky in our parents, brother, or he may be unusually unlucky in his. Though I suspect it is a little of both. Be kind to him, there is something of his mother in him also, and it may be that she has sent him to us to remind him of that.'  
 Glorfindel was about to tell her of his insight into the life of trees when Celegorm entered, carrying himself with the strutting lurch of the self-righteous but guilty.  
   
'I apologise for any inconvenience I may have caused.' he said formally. Glorfindel's sister smilingly held out some wine and gestured to a seat at the table.  
 'On the contrary' she said 'You have been most helpful, Glorfindel has been chopping onions for me. Indeed, if you yourself would also chop onions, that would be even more helpful.'  
 Thus it was that for the first time in his life, Celegorm son of Fëanor, grandson of Finwë the king of the Noldor, chopped an onion.  
   
 She brought her knife and chopping board and joined them at the table, chatting gaily about food, and asking Celegorm about his favourite dishes. The wine, the homely topic of conversation, and the welcoming kitchen, soon had them breathing calmly and smiling spontaneously, though they had yet to smile at each other. Celegorm lifted his freshly refilled glass to her  
 'I drink to you, and wonder why you do not come to Tirion, to be toasted by all ?'   
She blushed and smiled with lowered eyelids, but her face was pale beneath. Celegorm looked questioningly at Glorfindel, who shrugged. He had never imagined his sister even wanting to leave the farm, let alone wondered why she had not. He looked closely at her, the red had gone from her cheeks, if he had not known her better he would have thought her afraid.  
 She looked from one to the other and sighed  
 'I have thought of Tirion, but in truth, I am afraid. I do not even enjoy the small gatherings we have here, the mere idea of the swarms in the city fills me with unease... I fear the crowd.'

 Celegorm nodded slowly 'I understand your distaste. I myself prefer the quiet of the forest. But we all have our fears; my chief fear is of my own father, not for his great anger, but for the swiftness with which his temper changes, and the unpredictability of his mood. He will smile upon us at one moment, and snarl at us in the next, and the slightest disturbance can send him into a rage. In that regard, I am relieved to be beyond his reach.' he drank deeply, his face and posture a strange blend of haughtiness and anxiety.   
  She turned to Glorfindel and he realized that it was his turn to reveal his fear. He pursed his lips and looked doubtfully at Celegorm, then sighed.  
   
'I fear the darkness.' he said quietly.  
Celegorm was about to laugh, but caught the stern eye of Glorfindel's sister, and frowned thoughtfully. Finally he said  
 'Do you not love the starlight of Alqualondë then ?'  
Glorfindel shook his head 'I have never seen it. I fear the very thought of leaving the Light.'  
Celegorm looked at him in astonishment, then turned to his sister, who smiled ruefully.  
 'It is true, he will not accompany us when we visit the haven, he has never seen the sea.'  
Celegorm shook his head 'But Glorfindel, you must see the beaches strewn with pearls, the rock pools filled with bright jewels, the light of the stars on the water, the great sweep of the horizon...' he gestured as the words failed his excitement. Glorfindel looked at the shining eyes in surprise, and smiled warmly at Celegorm   
 'It sounds beautiful when you speak of it so, but how are you able to see the gems without the Light ?'  
 Celegorm drew in a breath and paused, then sipped his wine. 'Well... The Light is there, through the Calacirya, but when both Trees wane and only the stars shine, then no, we cannot see the gems in the water. But Glorfindel, you must experience the sea, it is... it is far more than merely a beautiful sight, it is a strange, familiar scent, it is a great roar of sound, it is a pulse felt through the whole body, it is the taste of salt and strange creatures in the spray from the silver foam, it is so vast that it humbles the mind, so indifferent to our concerns that it renders them insignificant. You must come with me to Alqualondë, you can stay with my family and I will show you the home of Ulmo.'

 Glorfindel opened and closed his mouth, but shook his head. He looked at his sister, who shrugged.  
 'Glorfindel, you know that it would be wise to face your fear, but since I cannot bring myself to visit Tirion, I cannot mock you for keeping away from the darkness. But consider this, my brother, while we cower on our little farm, far from our fears, Celegorm must return to face his fear, not only in his own city, not only in his own home, but in his own heart, in the person of his father.'

 

 They dined on the south terrace with blossoming fruit trees all around them, birds sang and darted across the garden while the small fountain sparkled in the golden air. The watercress soup, flavoured with thyme and dill, had the vivid green sharpness of truly fresh food. Celegorm was delighted 

  
  'I can see why you would not wish to leave here, this is the best soup I have ever tasted !'  
Glorfindel's father nodded 'It is best to cook the food as soon as it is gathered, and eat it at once. Though some dishes improve with long preparation. '  
 They spoke of food as the Light of Laurelin waned about them, but Celegorm watched Glorfindel's sister with shining, hooded eyes, and addressed all his questions to her. As the supper drew to a close she began to gather dishes into a pile. Celegorm leaped to his feet and begged to assist. He took the tray from her hands and she led him back to the kitchen.

 Glorfindel sipped his wine and listened idly to his father speak of the coming apricot harvest, and the proportion of fruit to be set aside for preserves. His mother was looking thoughtful, however, and Glorfindel poured wine into her glass. She smiled at him  
 'Thank you, my dear, will you bring another bottle up from the cellar ? You may select any wine which pleases you.'  
 The rare treat delighted Glorfindel, who also leaped to his feet  
 'You know that I will choose Ingwë's Nectar !' he cried excitedly. His mother laughed and his father grinned   
 'Bring two bottles, my dear son, for though I do not approve of brute force, you came through your first brawl commendably. I hope it may be the last ! '

On the way up the cellar stairs with the wine, Glorfindel heard the crash of falling crockery from the kitchen. Assuming that Celegorm, a novice, had dropped a dish, he laughed and took the stairs two at a time. He frowned at the closed kitchen door, it usually stood open. He tucked a bottle under one arm and turned the handle. 

His sister was struggling in the embrace of Celegorm, who was kissing her even as she tried to call for help. Her clothing was disarrayed, her hands thrust futilely at the powerful Celegorm even as his hand pressed between her legs. All this became apparent to Glorfindel in an instant of horror. In one fluid movement he placed the wine on the table, turned to grip the shoulder of Celegorm and punched him hard on the jaw. Celegorm's head flew back and hit the shelf behind, causing plates to cascade across the shelf, knocking down jars and pots, sending dried thyme into a settling cloud of scented green. Celegorm's eyes rolled back in his head and he slid to the floor in an ungainly heap. Glorfindel turned to his sister who was white with shock. They stared at each other in silence for a moment as the sound of hurrying footsteps approached. 

Their father ran into the room and froze with horror   
  'What...' he said.  
Behind him, their mother saw the injured Celegorm and darted to his side. She laid her cool hand on his brow and he stirred and mumbled. Glorfindel realized that he had been holding his breath since Celegorm had fallen, and gasped out, heaving in his next breath and beginning to tremble. His father led him to a seat and poured the wine, a strange expression on his face that he was glad his son's unseeing gaze had missed.  
 Glorfindel's sister was also trembling, her lip was cut, her eyes full of tears. Their mother picked up a lavender coloured button from the floor beside the now-awake Celegorm and held it up to her daughter's dress. The torn lavender fabric revealed rather more than she wished. She put an arm around her daughter and led her away.

Celegorm struggled to his feet, and faced the cold eyes of his host.  
 'I am sorry, sir, she seemed to like me. I asked for a kiss, but she became frightened.'

Glorfindel's father leaped to his feet 'She became frightened ? Of you ? You are not frightening, you attacked her, she fought you off until help arrived. You have been here for one day and have already attacked both of my children. I cannot consider you fit company for them, or anyone else. You will return home tonight; my son and I will escort you, and we shall all explain why to your mother and father.'

 Celegorm slumped, his shoulders sagged, his head went down, he did not speak. Glorfindel suddenly became aware of the pain in his right hand, his knuckles were bleeding, and the impact had sent a shock up to his very shoulder. He moved his shoulder carefully in a circle and twisted his neck to ease the muscles. His father took the healer's chest down, and bathed Glorfindel's knuckles. Celegorm, in disgrace, stood dumbly in the middle of the room, the fair falling hair concealing his expression. As his father tenderly bandaged Glorfindel's hand, Glorfindel found his heart filling with joy at being so loved, and loving his family so much, and his pity for Celegorm began to grow. But the memory of his sister's pale face, torn dress, her tears and the terrible sound of a cry for help muffled by the mouth of the attacker, filled him with horror. He glanced coldly at Celegorm and looked away again.

 'Father.' he said at length 'I do not understand why he acts like this ? Why does he behave so badly towards us ?'  
 His father sighed heavily and looked at Celegorm, who had not moved a muscle. 

'It is hard to explain such a mistake to one who has not made it. Suppose you were told that Telperion was better than Laurelin, and that led you to believe that Laurelin was of no consequence. You might then wish to cut down Laurelin to build a house from its wood. The same mistake has taken root in the heart of Celegorm and festers there, leading him to attack anything that contradicts his mistaken premise and the folly that it leads to in his mind.'

Glorfindel stared in horror at his father; disregarding the absurdity of one Tree being 'better' than another, the thought of someone actually attacking the Trees appalled him. Yet his own sister had just been attacked, and he himself had been forced to fight off the same assailant that very morning. He frowned at Celegorm; it was beyond all knowing, he thought, that an Elf could act with such disregard.

 


	2. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor is introduced to Glorfindel by Olórin. they climb Taniquetil for their coming of age.

Old Friends. 

 

   
Erestor, who found himself constantly in disfavour at home for his incessant questioning of everyone and everything, was sent finally by his exasperated grandmother to the house of her late sister Míriel, to have his education furthered alongside the children of Fëanor, the only child of Míriel. Three of the elder of the seven sons of Fëanor had established households of their own; of those still dwelling in the House of Fëanor, Celegorm led the way in all things. 

 Erestor had been warmly welcomed by Fëanor, who had unwittingly terrified his young cousin; the intensity of focus in the pale yet burning eyes, the intensity of purpose in the great swift mind, had almost silenced even the inquisitive Erestor. But as the life of the House had enfolded him, and his reassured spirit had freed his mind, his interest in the work of Fëanor had surpassed the shyness of his fear, and he had begun to interrogate his majestic host. 

 At first, their minds had met with joy, dancing from the nature of pearls to the alchemy of rocks, with forays into the nature of colour by the varying lights of the Trees. But the intellect of Fëanor, older and wiser, had leaped away from that of his pupil. Fëanor had become increasingly distracted by the intrusion of questions that were no longer relevant to the focus of his work. To the lasting shame of young Erestor, Fëanor had lost patience with him, and in the open courtyard, before several members of the household, including Celegorm, had rebuked Erestor for being tiresome, and in an angry snarl had cried 

 'Trouble me no more !'   
  Life thereafter had been very different for Erestor. He had sought advice, and comfort, from Nerdanel the wise, wife to Fëanor, who in her calm way had reassured him that he was neither the first, nor would he be the last, to rouse the wrath of Fëanor, and suggested that he begin in study of all that had yet been written by the Elves, since many of his questions had answers, there for the finding.  
 But more than the written word, she had told him, far more important, was to meet as many Elves of as many kinds as he could, and to listen to their tales with great care. For Nerdanel could see that which yet eluded Erestor; that not in the inertia of matter of the smithy, but in the living hearts and minds of the Creatures of Words, would Erestor find his significance.  
   
 Yet even this would have brought happiness to Erestor had it not been for the malice of Celegorm. Erestor had been warned by his mother that as an eldest child himself, he could have no concept of the need for attention felt by a younger child, especially in a large family.  
 'Consider, furthermore, that since the marriage of Curufin, Celegorm has expected to be the eldest, with all the privileges he thinks attendant upon that position. But you, a distant cousin, with a keener mind, will be perceived by him as usurping him. Be cautious, my son, be gentle and kind.'

 Conscientiously he had followed their advice; he had been pleasant and kind, polite and attentive, and begun to listen, with growing interest, to the stories of everyone from the rare meetings with Finwë himself, to the daily crowds of courtiers who flowed through the Halls like colourful flowers borne on a river; from Olórin the Maia who called sometimes on Nerdanel, to the young country Elves unloading fruit baskets in the kitchen yards.   
 But Celegorm, moved by his father's angry dismissal of Erestor, began to tease, then bully, and finally relentlessly persecute Erestor, until Erestor, despairing, admitted his pain to Olórin the Maia. Olórin had advised him to endure the short time remaining before Erestor would leave for Valmar, and to simply disdain to notice the desperate behaviour of Celegorm and his young siblings

 'Do not reward them with emotional reactions, they crave sensation; at least, Celegorm does, and his brothers follow him in everything. Brush them off as you would the dust of the road, and the futility of their words and deeds will be brought home to them.'  
 Erestor remembered the words of Olórin with a smile as the group of youths he was with approached Valmar in the full and blended Light. The Road was dusty, yet though the dust was formed of sparkling powder from gemstones, still they all paused to brush it from their clothes and hair. In front of him a laughing girl shook out her long black hair, Erestor examined it closely, there was a blue sheen, an insect iridescence which fascinated him. She felt his gaze, turned and saw him staring, then laughed and darted away. He wondered what her name was.  
  They were all strangers; the ceremony to celebrate the fiftieth Begetting Day was a time for those of the same age, who might otherwise never meet, to share in that which bound them together, their Place in Time. 

 The Halls of Eonwë were set back from the Road to the East of Valmar, where Eonwë himself, in traditional fashion, received each group of new arrivals to await the First Ascent. Choirs of Elves and Maia sang songs of welcome as the youths stood respectfully at the foot of the stairs. When the singing ended there was a great cheer, and the choristers placed garlands of fresh flowers on the heads of the new arrivals, then led them through into the Garden where tables were laid for feasting. Erestor was delighted, both at the joyousness of the occasion and by the fact that hereafter he could return to the house of his father, or to any other place his fancy led him, with no stain of the self-reproach he would have felt for leaving the House of Fëanor in fear. 

 As the feast progressed, those present began to rise from their seats, some to dance among the trees and flowers, others to join the singing, and many gathered in groups to converse. Erestor drifted through the Garden, wondering if anyone whom he even recognized would be present, and to his delight came upon Olórin the Maia taking his ease in a bower of pale, sweet roses.   
 'Ah ! ' cried Olórin cheerfully 'I was considering seeking you out, but in your inquisitive way you have found me ! Please join me !' he gestured to the seat beside him and Erestor seated himself with a smile. They watched in silence as the dancers passed, Erestor opening his mind to the full richness of the experience; safe at the side of the Maia. The music was some of the best he had heard, the fine choir of Eonwë had inspired those of the arrivals who could sing to give of their hearts; the familiar songs seemed to Erestor to be finally sung as they ought, by great choirs of joyful Elves, spontaneously gathered in celebration. He tried to express this sentiment to Olórin, who smiled at him.   
  'This is as nothing to the choirs of Manwë and Varda. The Song of Ascent, sung when at last you reach the summit of Taniquetil and the doors of Palace Ilmarin, will transport you from yourself, and you will know that all other music is but a pale echo of that Song. For the Maia, that Song in itself is but a pale echo of the Music of Eru Ilúvatar. ' Olórin sighed happily and looked around him 'And here' he gestured sweepingly around him 'Here is the Music, made manifest, and lived out by all in Arda.'

 Erestor sipped his wine in silence, but Olórin turned to look at him  
 'Celegorm will arrive here tomorrow.' he said quietly.   
 Erestor nodded 'I am hoping that since I am no longer a part of the same household, he will have lost interest in making me miserable.'  
Olórin nodded slowly 'Yes, it is to be hoped that he may mature and learn wisdom, if not compassion. I admit to regret that Fëanor should have had so many children, for I fear that though he may love the younger no less, he has failed to give them the attention that they deserve. In truth, he did not offer even his firstborn as much as was due, for the mind of Fëanor, as you well know, pursues many interests. So it has been, alas, and his younger children, in their need for the love and attention of their father, have sought in unsavoury fashion to quench the thirst which they are barely yet able to acknowledge. But do not lose heart, my friend.'  
 Erestor, far from losing heart, found that being called "my friend" by Olórin, whom he most admired, had made his heart sing like the choirs. But Olórin spoke again.  

 'There is another now present whom Celegorm has offended. A good-hearted youngster of whom I am very fond. He is swift of perception and thought, though he will never be a scholar such as yourself. His father was at Cuiviénen; he was raised simply, on a farm, and knows nothing of the complications of the city. I am hoping that he will appear soon, and that the two of you will become friends.' he laughed softly, under his breath 'Or at the very least, allies...'   
 Erestor looked in surprise at Olórin 'His father was at Cuiviénen? Yet he... yet your friend is as young as I ?'  
Olórin nodded, 'Yes, his name is Glorfindel, you will know him when you see him. '  
 Erestor smiled and told Olórin of the girl with the blue-black hair. Olórin had laughed then.  
 'Very well, young scholar, I shall leave you to investigate the hair of your fellows, and you shall tell me yourself whether he is well named, if you will both call on me tomorrow for luncheon.'

 The feasting and song had lasted until the dimming of the Trees; Erestor had finally seen an acquaintance and thereafter found himself caught up in laughing crowds, with a glass that never emptied, dishes of delicacies constantly passed to him, and the girl with iridescent hair laughingly inviting him to dance. Lost in her deep brown eyes he forgot Olórin, Glorfindel and even Celegorm, and eventually found his arms linked between her and another girl, as they danced and sang around the flowered edge of a pool filled with bright gleaming fish.  
   
 After a rest in the beauty of the room in the Halls, the momentousness of the occasion returned to Erestor with renewed solemnity. After the music and song of the feast, the silent courtyards seemed to still the very dust, which drifted, sparkling, through the warm, flower-scented air. He inquired of a helpful courtier of Eonwë the location of the rooms of Olórin, and was personally conducted through the gleaming city by the courtier herself.  
 'I know of none who do not love Olórin' she explained 'His kindness to me, when I needed it most, will stay with me forever, and like all who have been blessed to know him, I would do anything to bring him joy. Indeed I envy you your summons, for as you will imagine, his friends and admirers would flock to his doors every day, did he not forbid us all !' 

 Erestor felt slightly crushed, and realised that he had, without being aware of it, already counted on the friendship of Olórin; a folly, naturally, given that Olórin was not only a Maia, but also perhaps the Maia most beloved of the Elves. He paused, and trailed a hand through the ivy of a pillar. The courtier stopped and turned back to look curiously at Erestor, then her expression softened and she took his hand in both of hers.  
 'Olórin will never cast you adrift, he will be sure to find a suitable companion for you to share the Ascent with, his wisdom in the ways of the heart is as subtle as his mind, he will not brush you off as...' she paused, and her cheeks and throat darkened with embarrassment.  
 Erestor blinked and withdrew his hand swiftly. 'You know about Fëanor...'  
 She closed her eyes and her face seemed to clench like a fist for a moment. Then she looked calmly at him.   
 'To you he is a cousin. To the world, he is the son of Finwë, king of the Noldor. Every public word and deed of his is carefully, and carelessly, discussed by all.'  
Erestor almost glared at her. She took a half-step backwards and smiled tentatively.  
 'Everyone is laughing at me ! I must leave here at once ! It is intolerable !' he cried. She put out her hand again, but he spun angrily away, gripping the back of a garden seat with white knuckles. There was a silence, during which Erestor took command of himself and slowed the hammers of his heart. 

 'Of course they are not... they are all as busy as Olórin, each wrapped up in their own lives, especially here, especially now...' he said finally, and forced himself to look up at her again. Her face was serious, her eyes concerned  
 'As I heard it, Fëanor treated you just as he has treated all with whom he has been close, including' her voice softened to little more than a whisper 'including his own wife. I have also heard that Celegorm, who even as young as he is has already begun to acquire enemies, has taken advantage of your sense of being in disgrace.   
  Know that such behaviour as his impresses none, and that the favour of Olórin will count for far more, both in your heart, and in the eyes of the world, than any fleeting discomfort you may feel from the malice of a piqued child. Indeed, the talk is of your courage and fortitude, and you will find that the scorn of Celegorm for you inspires rather the respect of the wise. But whether Celegorm can be enabled to understand the effects of his behaviour is another matter, and one that I am delighted to say will not be a problem that I, or you, will have to solve.' 

There was ivy engraved both on and around the door. The courtier bade him farewell with a hand on his shoulder, and a large bee, as though taking up the role, hummed past Erestor and settled on the door. He smiled to himself and knocked on the smooth wood. The kindly voice of Olórin bade him enter, and as he opened the door the bee floated into the Tree-lit room, to join several others circling the desk where scrolls and parchments were scattered in disorderly piles. Erestor looked around at the large Treeward-facing windows, through which the shade of a wide colonnade, its roof upheld by pillars wreathed in living ivy, gave onto a meadow of many flowers in long, thick grass. The bees were busy among the flowers, drifting in and out of the shade and the room, filling the fragrant air with their drone.   
  Olórin himself was silhouetted by the bright garden, he turned to Erestor and beckoned him forwards. Erestor moved to the side of the Maia, who gestured with a slight sweep of his hand.  
Several Elves were playing teamball in the grass, but the one nearest to the house stood still, his back towards them, waiting for the ball. He was tall and broad at the shoulders, his limbs long, his body poised, held in the loose alertness of the exemplary player. But it was the hair that caught and held the eye, hanging down his back like molten gold, the strands tumbling and twisting in serpentine tendrils of frozen fire. 

 The ball flew towards them, the golden-haired Elf lifted an arm and plucked it from the air, then with the speed of a dragonfly, he darted away, his hair streaming behind him like a wind-blown flame. Erestor blinked and turned to Olórin, who was watching him thoughtfully.   
   
Erestor nodded 'That is Glorfindel.'   
Olórin smiled, then looked seriously into the eyes of Erestor.  
 'There are strange prophesies regarding him. I admit that it is my hope that not only will you find sympathy in him, but that he will find support in you. Your devotion to enquiry and the life of the mind contrast with his vigorous delight in action. I think a friendship between you would enrich both your lives, and strengthen you both in the days to come.'  
 A shadow seemed to fall on the face of the Maia, the light blue eyes darkened, and a frown folded the usually-smiling face. The sense of deep unease was new to Erestor, he could imagine no plausible threat to Valinor that could ever be beyond power of the Valar. Melkor himself had been constrained by the order of Manwë, yet here was one of the Maia, hinting that worse was to come.   
 'But, Olórin, of what possible threat do you speak ? And if such a threat be upon us, what possible use could such... such young and insignificant people as I or Glorfindel be against it ?'  
 Olórin sighed and smiled, 'Even were it permitted to me to speak of such matters, there is little that I can say to assist you. As you cannot imagine what my eyes see, so am I unable to comprehend the manner in which the World appears to you.   
 I merely ask that you consider Glorfindel as a friend, if his own charm does not sway your heart.' Olórin laughed 'But I know that it will !'

 A shout of triumph, followed by laughter and cheering, came in from the garden. Olórin led Erestor out onto the colonnade as Glorfindel ran towards them with the ball in his hand and laughter still lighting his face. He was extraordinarily handsome; Erestor thought of other beautiful Elves he knew, and how such beauty did the work of charm so well. Except in some, he thought, like Celegorm...

The impact of the arrival of Glorfindel on the quiet of the colonnade was like a sudden flash of lightning, the first footfall of a storm into parched air. There was a fresh sweetness around him, almost a breeze; Erestor could feel the vigour of him, felt himself animated in sympathy. The very shade was brightened, and optimism filled his heart.   
 Glorfindel blinked as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, and grinned at Olórin who clapped a hand on his shoulder 'Another victory, my friend, there is no stopping you !'  
 Glorfindel smiled, and tossed the ball into the air, caught it, then spun and threw it towards the approaching Elves, who struggled laughingly to catch it. But Glorfindel was already looking at Erestor   
 'I have heard tell of you, and not only from Olórin. It seems we have a common foe.'  
 Erestor gaped, the thought that this marvellous Elf had ever thought about him seemed unbelievable, but then he remembered who his cousins were, and his delight subsided. He smiled and bowed more formally than usual, and said  
 'Walk in the light. Olórin speaks of you with praise, Glorfindel, indeed you are well-named.'  
Glorfindel was still as he weighed the polite words, but Olórin had a hand on their shoulders 

 'Come, children, for so you will remain until you have ascended Taniquetil, let us dine together and share a tale or two. It is my honour to fare you well before you set forth upon your climb.'  
The House of Olórin was set on the western side of a low hill, sheltering house and garden from the sea winds. In the dell between house and hill, Olórin grew fragile herbs and delicate flowers whose evocative scents rose almost visibly to perfume the air of the balcony to which Olórin led them, up broad shallow steps of pale green marble. At the top of the hill, level with the balcony, a fountain sparkled in the Tree-light; its form was that of a tree of white gold, finely drawn into myriad tiny twigs, whence the water flowed like the living rain. Erestor and Glorfindel gasped with delight, the Tree-light formed dancing, many-hued patterns of colour in the fine spray of the seemingly delicate fountain. Olórin looked pleased and proud as they turned to him with exclamations of admiration.   
 'Thank you, it is the most beautiful aspect to this lovely house. Indeed, Aulë himself constructed the fountain, and placed it here, and had the house built to view the fountain as it should be seen. It is my privilege to inhabit this fine home.' he lowered his voice to a mock-fierce whisper 'It is the loveliest home in Valinor !' 

 Glorfindel laughed cheerily and clapped Olórin on the upper arm, to the consternation of the formal Erestor, but Olórin laughed, linked his arm with that of Glorfindel and led him to a chair by the laden table on the balcony. He gestured Erestor to another chair, then lifted a garland of small white flowers onto the shining hair of Glorfindel. There was another for Erestor. Olórin himself took a garland of vibrant pink, so deep that it that it was almost violet, and placed it upon his own head. Glorfindel gave a short laugh   
  'Olórin wears the Crown of Nessa, and we her flowers.' he said confidingly to Erestor, who looked at Olórin in puzzlement   
 'This' he gestured at the dense, vivid draperies of the pink vine 'this is Crown of Nessa ? I have seen it elsewhere, but I did not know the name. But tell me, Olórin, does this vine grow two, or indeed, several, types of flower ?'   
 Olórin smiled and plucked a twig from the overhanging foliage 

 'No, these are not flowers, these are the leaves, observe.' he gave the strand to Erestor, who looked closely at it. It was as Olórin had said, near the end of the twig the leaves were gradually turning pink, while at the tip hung three frail, star-like flowers of white. Erestor held the flowers before his face and inhaled carefully, but could percieve no scent.   
Glorfindel spoke then 'But the true Crown of Nessa is the cloud of butterflies and birds which dine upon the nectar.'  Indeed it was so, jewel bright birds, of size no greater than the irridescent butterflies, hovered over the little flowers, or darted from stem to stem. Olórin suddenly clapped his hands together, and from every branch, it seemed, rose a cloud of butterflies, and gem-like birds, filling the air like windblown petals. Erestor rose to his feet and looked at Olórin.   
 'Truly you are wise, oh Olórin, kindest of Maiar, for I have never seen such a spectacle; it is my loss, that I have spent years in study, hunched over book and scroll, counting myself wise, thinking that I knew the world, when the world has been unfolding around me before my unseeing eyes. You must think me very foolish.'  
 Olórin sat down and smiled at Erestor 'No, my friend, but I know that you are young, and have much more to learn than can ever be found in books, or any work of hand or mind. However' he looked with mock severity at the smiling Glorfindel 'You, my blythe young Elf, have sorely neglected the world of book and tool, and must learn the patience to sit still long enough to study a little.' 

 Erestor gave a small smile at the stricken expression on the otherwise carefree face of Glorfindel, but spoke to Olórin.  
 'So you have brought us together in the hope that I may guide him through the libraries and smithies, while he shall share with me his knowledge of the real world of all that lives or grows here in Valinor ?'  
 Olórin smiled a subtle smile, and lifted the cover of a deep dish. A cloud of richly-scented steam arose around his face, for a moment there was an almost sinister air to him, but as he smiled, the steam dispersed, and Olórin said  
 'Yet much of beauty and delight has been crafted by those who study, or work with their hands; the joy of cooked food, begun by the Noldor in far off times, and perfected in the abundance of Valinor, is a marvel in itself, and many wonders that you take for granted are the product of years of study and labour by many hands and minds.'  
   
  Erestor and Glorfindel looked seriously, appraisingly, at each other for a moment, then Glorfindel smiled.   
 'I think that your conduct in the teeth of the malice of Celegorm would dispose me to heed your words, though Olórin had not introduced us. My ignorance of craft and scroll is shameful, and I hope that you will help me. For my part, sharing my love of the beauty of Valinor is a joy in itself; knowing that I may thereby offer you assistance in your own observation is an additional pleasure.'

 They smiled warmly then, and Olórin seemed to breathe more easily. Erestor looked down at his hands as Olórin asked Glorfindel to pour wine, while he served them bowls of the rich pottage. Erestor was abashed at the confidence, ease of manner and sheer presence of the charming Glorfindel, it seemed very unlikely to him that such an Elf would pay him heed; surely he would be polite and cordial, but then excuse himself and find some interesting person to pass time with. He sneered at his hands, he had made nothing; for though he had spent time in smithies and workshops, particularly that of Nerdanel the wise, he had preferred to watch and listen, more interested in the crafter than the craft, whomsoever wielded the tools. He became aware that Olórin was watching him keenly and looked up at the kind blue eyes. Across the table, Glorfindel ate heartily, pausing occasionally take a sip from the glass at his side. Erestor, avoiding the gaze of Olórin, tasted his own; the wine was old, soft and smooth as silk, in his delight he forgot his fear and looked at Olórin in surprise.   
  'Surely this is... surely this is Vintage of Varda ?'  
Olórin smiled sunnily, gentle pride and happiness shone forth from him like the Light from a polished gem. Erestor almost forgot the wine, so moved was he by the radiant joy of the Maia.   
 'Yes, my friends, it was a gift from our Lady herself, and I save it for special occasions.'   
Even Glorfindel paused then, and looked first at Olórin and then at Erestor. Their eyes met, and for the first time Erestor felt that he could see beyond the gleaming charm to the country Elf, unsure of himself amidst the splendour, but still carefree and fearless. Erestor wondered how much of the calm of Glorfindel was natural ease and how much an act of great courage. 

The excellent food, the rare wine, the beautiful setting, and the skill and charm of Olórin, soon had even Erestor talking freely, and laughing aloud at the jesting. But when finally Olórin led them to the great open porch of his House, to wish them well at the start of their climb, the shyness returned to Erestor and he fell silent. In the sparkling street outside, the young Elves who would come of age that day walked past in twos and threes, with here and there a small group. To the East was the stunning height of Taniquetil whose snowy peaks glowed like nacre in the Light of the Trees. Glorfindel thanked Olórin for the hospitality, glanced at the hesitant Erestor and thanked Olórin on his behalf. Erestor finally remembered his manners.  
  'I shall remember this meal with joy for as long as I live, I can think of nothing I would rather have done on this day, nor anything that I would have added to the occasion. I shall always be grateful to you, Olórin of the Maiar.' he said, bowing with hand on heart.   
 But Olórin smiled and took the hand of Erestor and held it in both of his  
 'Walk always in the Light, my dear friend, always in the Light.'

 

 They were gathered at the crossroads, a bright noisy throng; off to one side, Eonwë sat on a great chestnut horse, which stood calm and still, Light gleaming from its flanks. Erestor swallowed nervously and looked to Glorfindel for reassurance. Glorfindel looked searchingly at the crowd then turned to Erestor   
 'Are you expecting to meet anyone ? Do you know anyone here ?'  
Erestor shook his head 'Alas, the only other of whom I am aware is...'  
 'Celegorm.' said Glorfindel coldly. It was the first shadow that Erestor had seen crossing the lovely face, he examined his own feelings and realised that in only the time it had taken them to dine, he had been charmed by Glorfindel, just as Olórin had foreseen. He smiled at himself, then thought of the old adage   
 "Argue with a Maia when you can hear the Music."  
'Oh Glorfindel, I had forgotten him in my joy at this day's events, especially...' he hesitated and flushed slightly 'Especially meeting you.'   
Glorfindel smiled happily at him 'You are right, what is the shadow of a cloud to the Light of the Trees ! Let us brush aside our small grievance, and cherish the occasion !'

 They stood beneath a tree at the edge of the crowd, listening to the laughter and singing. After a time they realised that many others hung back alone, watching shyly. Finally Glorfindel spoke to an unfamiliar Elf beside them  
 'Walk in the Light, stranger, have you travelled far to be here ?'  
 The stranger, clad in formal robes of Noldor blue, which looked both new and unfamiliar, to the courtier-eyes of Erestor, looked a little apprehensively up at the splendid Glorfindel, but smiled tentatively   
 'Valar guide you, stranger, yes, my brother and I', he gestured to the Elf behind, who had turned at the sound of voices 'we come from Alqualondë, well, nearby, there is a village...' his voice tailed off, but his brother, who resembled him, but was not as alike as some twins are, stepped up beside him and bowed.   
 'Walk in the light' he said 'Have you come down from Taniquetil ?'  
 Glorfindel laughed 'Alas, this is to be my first ascent. But my mother is of the Vanyar.' he flicked dismissively at his gold hair, and shrugged; slightly behind him, Erestor watched the myriad fingers of the wind twine the silken strands, as though Manwë himself were drawn to toy. His mind, intent upon the gravity of the occasion, awoke with a jolt to the message of his heart. The charm of Glorfindel had possessed him. Erestor knew that he was more than charmed, that the bright heat of the flame had caught his heart, and all those he had admired in the past seemed but the follies of youth.

  Here was the beautiful Glorfindel, beside him, at this great moment in their lives. He looked at Glorfindel, his eyes glowing, as though he could convey his discovery merely with his eyes. Glorfindel smiled back at him, the look of one about to speak on his face, but paused when he saw the shining smile and the glowing eyes of Erestor. He gave a half-smile, and turned back to the brothers. The first was speaking, a laugh in his voice  
 'We have visited the house of our uncle in Tirion, it was he who attired us so. To speak plainly, I am uncomfortable in such finery.' His twin frowned slightly but said nothing. But Glorfindel laughed gaily  
 'I too am unaccustomed to finery, for I was raised on a farm. But my new friend here wears nothing else !'  
 They passed some time thus, laughing at the jesting of Glorfindel with the more talkative of the brothers, drawing nearby Elves to hover at the edge, then join in the laughter. Erestor marvelled at the simple charm of Glorfindel, putting strangers at their ease in a conversation that the reserved, cautious ear of the courtier in him found himself constantly searching for insinuation and nuance that was entirely absent. It slowly became clear to him why this was so. The purpose of this conversation was merely to have a conversation, there was no hidden intent, nobody sought to sway or persuade, no subtle influence was being exerted, no pressure applied. He felt his muscles ease, thinking again with praise and gratitude of the wisdom of Olórin; Glorfindel was the perfect tonic for his overwrought spirit, there was indeed a great deal more to life than the narrow scheming of the courts of Tirion.   
   
Even as he understood this, a voice full of contempt spoke from behind him.  
 'My friends ! Here is my dear cousin, what joy is mine !'   
Celegorm was there.   
Erestor turned swiftly, his jaw clenched, the mask of the courtier gripped fiercely in place.   
 'Walk in the Light, cousin.' he said tonelessly. To his surprise, the face of Celegorm became pale, but blood rose to the skin of his cheeks and neck, his eyes were widening with fear. Erestor frowned in surprise, Celegorm had never feared him... He felt an arm around his shoulders, and looked up to see Glorfindel beside him. Glorfindel merely looked coldly at Celegorm. Neither of them spoke.   
 The son of Fëanor froze into stillness, as did his friends; the air between Celegorm and Glorfindel became still, solid as amber. Erestor felt unable to breathe, the silence engulfed the laughing group, and the visible tension drew the eyes of all around. 

 In the midst of the endless moment, Erestor found himself vividly aware of all about him; the colours of the sky, the increasingly remote sounds of laughter and song, the bright formal robes, the birdsong, the scents of flowers and trees, and beside him, Glorfindel, warm and living, a strand of the precious golden hair brushing against his cheek, carrying a faint hint of cut grass, and wild herbs. He almost forgot Celegorm and his followers, the poise and presence of Glorfindel reduced them to harmless children. He almost laughed. 

 But Celegorm, with no word of greeting nor explanation, merely turned and walked away. His friends followed in silence. Glorfindel kept his arm around Erestor for a moment longer, then with a final tightening of his grip, he let go and turned back to the breathless Elves.   
 'So they will perform "The Arrival of Oromë" in the open air theatre after the ascent ?' he said, as if they had never been interrupted. The less talkative twin was the first to regain his voice.   
 'Yes, Melairë of Alqualondë will play Oromë. Have you seen anything of his ?'  
 'No, but I saw a beautiful drawing of him once, he indeed looked handsome enough to play a Vala !'  
Erestor wondered if he alone had heard the faint traces of deeper emotion than amusement in the voice of Glorfindel. His eyes met those of the talkative twin and knew that it was not so. But Glorfindel was speaking  
 'I am eager to see this great actor, though I hope his great beauty does not blind me to his skill !'  
Erestor, marvelling at the blunt honesty of Glorfindel after the lies and hypocrisy of court, remembered his voice, and manners.   
 'I have met Melairë several times, I could introduce you if you wish it ? He is charming and amusing when he wishes to be.'  
 Glorfindel laughed 'I should hope so ! That is the least to expect of an actor !  But it is my hope that he may stir my spirit with emotion, and make me weep with joy. Do you not find that knowing the actor destroys the illusion ?'  
 'Not when the actor is skillful. When he played Enel in "Cuiviénen" I swiftly forgot that Melairë the actor existed, for me it seemed that he had become Enel.'   
 Other voices spoke up, until at length a kindly Vanya reminded them that the ascent had begun and stewarded them back onto the path. 

As they climbed above the lower slopes the Trees became visble in all their magnificence, the forests and meads of the valley spread around them, and when the path encircled the mountain the deep shade of the sea appeared between the sharp cliffs of the Gap. The birds of the air around them changed in nature to those suited to the heights of the mountain, eagles floated; some, far, far larger than even the largest of the lesser eagles, were the messengers of Manwë, bringing news to their Lord of all that passed in the world beyond Ilmarin.  
   
 Higher they climbed, the laughter of the Elves giving way to quiet song and silence; the colours of the valley began to fade as the misty air thickened, but the Light grew stronger, and the heart of Erestor felt as though, for the first time in his life, he could believe those who insisted that the Music could be heard even by Elves. Though he heard nothing himself, he was moved to turn to Glorfindel.   
 'May I ask you a question ? A personal question?'  
Glorfindel laughed again, Erestor wondered what it must be like to have such a well of joy within, for the laughter of Glorfindel little resembled the tone or timing of the laughter of courtiers. But Glorfindel looked smilingly at him  
'You may ask me anything, my friend, if you will allow me to consider you my friend.'  
 Erestor stopped and stared at Glorfindel for a moment, his voice seemed not to work, he swallowed and then in a small croak he said 'Thank you.'   
 Glorfindel smiled and raised an eyebrow. Erestor gestured vaguely with one hand  
 'It is the Music... Do you hear it ?' he asked clumsily. Glorfindel frowned for a moment and looked curiously at Erestor  
 'Do you mean... You do not mean now, you mean ever... I do not know. I sometimes think that I do, but no, I cannot say that I clearly do. No.'  
 Erestor spoke as coolly as he could 'No. Nor I; indeed until now I did not believe those who claimed that they could, though I said nothing.'  
 Glorfindel looked soberly at Erestor. 'I shall have to find a suitable gift for Olórin, to honour him for introducing us. I was idly thinking of the festivities to come as we climbed, but you have reminded me of the magnitude of this momentous occasion, and I am most grateful to you.'

 But the mind of Erestor dwelt entirely on the person of the friend who walked beside him, and the gravity of the day touched him less than water drops on a furnace-hot blade.  

 The fair halls of the Vanyar were spread across a high plateau, the path meandered, past fresh cool streams and foaming falls. The Vanyar had gathered to line their path along an avenue of flowering trees; they scattered petals of delicate pink over the passing youths and sang the Vanyar Song of Welcome. Above them the dazzling snow began; where the rising slope funnelled into an ever-narrowing valley, down which a stream flowed bearing shards and fragments of ice.  One foolhardy Elf darted off the path to taste the water, but the shock of the cold rendered him insensible, and his new friends waited with him while he was tended by a patient steward, who let him sip at miruvor until he recovered sufficiently to rejoin the ascent.   
 Glorfindel, who had successfully smothered his laughter until they were beyond hearing, took hold of the arm of Erestor and turned his sparkling face towards him.   
  'Did you see him ? I thought that was the funniest thing I have seen in a long time ! Did he not know that ice is cold ?'

  Erestor felt a shadow fall across him, as though the cold of the everlasting snow had reached his bones, though the long climb in the thick formal robes had warmed them all. He felt his frown, and saw the face of Glorfindel stiffen as his hand dropped from the arm of Erestor. There was a moment of silence in which Erestor knew that this was a stranger whom he had known for a mere instant of time, until his courtier's training guided his thoughts. He smiled as warmly as he could.   
 'It was amusing indeed, and I feel sure that he, and all who saw him will tell the tale to all. Yet I cannot but wonder if some rash Elf does not attempt the feat every year; I too was tempted to try the water. But no such tale has ever reached my ears.' he raised his brows at Glorfindel, who frowned thoughtfully.   
 'You are perceptive, Erestor, and indeed, I have heard no such tale, nor any warning...' He lifted his eyes to the peak above them; the nacreous snow draped like finery on the elegant bones of the rock, the radiance of Ilmarin spilling over the summit and down the steep sides, though the Palace itself was yet beyond sight. 'I suspect that the intesity of that which awaits us will drive all such thoughts from our minds.' he looked down and stirred the diamond dust of the path with his foot. Erestor, despite his preoccupation with a rather different kind of intensity, was fascinated by the solemnity of blythe Glorfindel. 

 'We are coming of age, my friend. When we descend this mountain we shall no longer be dismissed with the children, indeed, last year one of my cousins descended, and married almost at once. Everything will be different after today, especially the manner in which we are treated, and in which we are expected to behave. The momentary folly of a whimsical Elf, recklessly tasting the ice, will be left behind with our toys, I think.'   
 Glorfindel nodded. 'I think you are right. May I tell you, while we speak of serious matters, the nature of my grievance with Celegorm ?'  
 Erestor's eyes widened 'There is no need, it is enough for me that Olórin should speak of you with praise.' he paused and returned the grateful smile of Glorfindel 'But I confess that my curiosity is considerable.'  
 'He attacked my sister. ' said Glorfindel bluntly. 'I threw him off.'

  The shock reduced Erestor to silence, he stretched out a hand and pressed the arm of Glorfindel for a moment. Glorfindel nodded but did not speak for a while. They walked onward up the path, in an altered world; Erestor felt somehow taller, his spirit seemed to float freely, larger than his physical self, a radiance finer than eye could reach, blending like the Treelight with the spirit of Glorfindel. Where before each had felt a lone hand against numerous hostile opponents, now the knowledge that they stood beside each other had lifted the sense of menace like a warm wind dispersing mist. 

   
 Glorfindel paused after a while at a turn in the path and looked around at the vast horizon. Westward shone the trees, Laurelin was waning while Telperion waxed silver. The Light on the snow turned the golden hair of Glorfindel into a gleaming liquid fall; Erestor felt he could almost see the waters of awakening at Cuiviénen, made a living part of the world in the person of this loveliest of Elves. Moved to forgetfulness of himself, as foolishly as the youth who had drunk of the icy stream, he put out a hand and stroked the glowing, silvery-gold hair.   
 Glorfindel smiled at him, but Erestor knew that he had erred, that this was not the moment for such an intimate act, that Glorfindel would now despise him. He hung his head.   
 'Forgive me, Glorfindel, I apologise sincerely for my appalling manners, and my complete loss of my presence of mind.' He looked up, into the amused eyes 'It was your hair, the Light, the snow, the colours in your hair, it looked like water, or... or... I cannot say, some essence of starlight from the Old World...' .  
 Glorfindel shook his head and laughed softly 'Yes, people like my hair. Please do not apologise or think badly of yourself. I am pleased that you feel trusting enough to forget yourself, I think I was, no, I know that I was a little apprehensive that such a learned scholar, especially one who is kin to Fëanor himself, should be advised to spend time with one so insignificant. Truly, I am glad that you really think we can be friends. To prove my earnestness, I shall share a secret with you, though it matters little whether you speak of this to others, for Celegorm already knows.'  
 Erestor, whose mind and heart were in turmoil, looked in astonishment at Glorfindel   
 'A... you have a secret ? What kind of secret ?'  
 Glorfindel gestured out East, to where the great sea spread away into the darkness. The world seemed to have been carved in twain, for though the Light spilled forth through the Calacirya, it seemed merely to highlight the great blackness beyond.   
 'I fear the dark.' said Glorfindel simply.   
   
 There were no words adequate to convey the majesty of the Hall of Manwë. The youths were led through the vast entrance into the staggering space of the inner hall, where two statues of marvellous size and attention to detail were seated upon great shining thrones. Unseen, high above them on the galleries, choirs sang from the Ainulindalë, but the youths, alone and without guidance for the first time, gathered in the centre of the gleaming floor. At first they looked about them curiously, speaking softly of the wondrous hall, but soon the echoes of their own voices unnerved them, and silence fell.  The high, sweet song of the choir soared above them, the young Elves gradually became calm and stood in a stillness almost matching the imposing statues. Finally a voice rose from among them, a hand was raised, pointing. Every eye followed the arm, to where the space above them began to glow with shifting lights, that wreathed through the still air like glowing mist, yet with a curious transience, flickering into and out of existence, or bending light like glass in water. Their eyes struggled to make sense of what they saw, but the lights grew in brightness and intensity and began to circle swiftly above the Elves, until a garland of light hung in the air, the speed of motion giving their dazzled eyes the illusion of solidity, as though a mighty chandelier formed purely of light had been suspended over the vast hall. The light grew in intensity, until the fierce blue-whiteness of it seared across their minds, dazed their senses and left them stunned. With a final burst of barely tolerable brightness, the lights were gone. Their overwrought eyes saw only blackness, until a voice among them gave a wordless cry. The statues had begun to glow. 

 Erestor felt a kind of terror that he had never known before. The veiled power of Maiar such as the kindly Olórin had left him hopelessly unprepared for the crushing immensity of the Valar in their own Hall. Even his rare visits to the presence of Aulë had given him no hint of the power and majesty of the Lord Manwë and his Lady Varda, King and Queen of Arda; for Aulë had worn an Elven form, though on an altogether grander scale, and his mind had been absorbed in the work of his mighty hands. Those who had studied with Aulë had proven their devotion to the craft long before any question of admittance to his presence was considered.   
 But in Ilmarin were gathered all the Elves of their age, and these Valar were no fellow-crafters, these were the Lord of the wind and air, king of all Arda; and beside him the queen, the Lady of the stars, whose light had been the first sight of the first Elves, in Cuiviénen long before.   
 The vast statues grew in brightness, like the waxing of the Trees, until the light faded, and the colours of life and cloth and jewel gave them the appearance of living Elves, of giant frame and exquisite, breathtaking beauty. 

 There came a moment, after no discernible shift or alteration, when the heart of Erestor, between one instant and the next, knew that the statues were not graven images, but the very forms of the Valar, whose mighty spirits could wander at will, whether housed in their forms or not. The great eyes opened and the deep blue gaze of Manwë himself regarded them thoughtfully. Beside him Varda rose to her feet and with a smile began to sing.   
 The voice of the queen was strange to the young Elves, filling the hall with the booming power of some creature of the deep ocean, which, driven to the shore and, baffled among the frail craft of the Elves, called for the aid of its kin with all the echoic resonance of its mighty breath. But the beauty of the song of Varda, Lady Elbereth, had no counterpart among the music of the living, it was a remote, ethereal sound, the song of the wind of the stars, the song of Light falling like endless rain in the deeps of the sky, far beyond the Walls of the World. 

 As she sang, Erestor felt his spirit filling with meaning and purpose; he could feel that great wisdom and understanding would be his, when he had given the dazzling sense of insight time to form comprehensible notions in his mind. The path that his life would take, that of study and learning, unfolded in his mind like a carpet, he felt himself surveying the future as he had surveyed the valleys around the mountain; a future at once visible in all its expanse, yet far beyond his Elven eyes to discern in detail. Moreover, he felt that the whole landscape of his vision was his to roam at will, that however he chose to proceed, he would not err, for there was no doubt in his mind that the path of wisdom was a meandering one, and that there was no single right way to make the journey that lay ahead of him. He sighed happily, soaking up the Music like a wilting plant drinks the rain, and feeling a peace and serenity that he had never imagined existed. 

 Beside him, Glorfindel gasped, and fell to his knees, then hurriedly rose, and with a final shiver, composed himself. He did not turn to meet the questioning eyes of Erestor, but lifted his chin and gazed upwards at Manwë with his shoulders straight. Erestor recalled the dark warnings of Olórin and wondered if Glorfindel had seen some different valley to the one that he himself had had revealed. He wondered if he could ask Glorfindel, and if he did, whether Glorfindel would, or even could, give him an answer.   
   
 When Varda had ended her song and resumed her seat, Manwë rose and spoke to them, in a voice of the wind, with the power of the storm, the sibilance of the roaring trees and the resonance of the cliff-hemmed valleys of the mountains.   
 The voice of Manwë seemed not to speak in any words known to Erestor, yet half-formed notions and fragments of insight in his mind revealed themselves to be connected in understanding, as facets of a gem, or as fingers lifted upwards through the surface of water reveal themselves parts of the hand. Exaltation seemed to lift his feet from the ground, the Light within him seemed to dissolve the walls of flesh that kept him from the world, he felt himself afloat, an undifferentiated part of the joy in which he himself dissolved. Only his concern for Glorfindel, whom he could see did not share his joy, kept him from ecstasy. 

Manwë fell silent, the two Valar, still as marble, watched as the young Elves reminded themselves to breathe, and began to look about themselves as waking dreamers. The Vanyar stewards had returned, and slowly led the newest adults out into the full silvery light of Telperion. A feast was spread on the sward before Ilmarin, and those who had ascended the mountain ate with keen appetites, while laughing Vanyar kept their jewelled goblets brimming with pale cold wine. Erestor laughed himself, taking hearty bites of a soft roll with a savoury filling and crisp herb salad. Glorfindel was silent for a time, but Erestor, though eager to help in any way that he could, was as overwhelmed as the rest, and filled with the joy of a discovery so satisfying that he felt no need to rush to share his news, but was content to let the time take its course. 

 They ate and drank in silence, and as the nourishment cleared his mind, Erestor became aware that all around him were also silent, that the voices and laughter all came from their Vanyar hosts. He nodded slowly to himself; the young Elves were all as stunned as he himself, he knew it must be the same every year, and that their hosts, the Vanyar, knew that nothing they did or said could affect such a state of the spirit, so they joked and talked amongst themselves as though alone.   
  Finally Glorfindel, visibly summoning his courage, met the eyes of Erestor   
'My dear Erestor, I release you from the bonds of friendship. I would not have you associated with one such as myself. It has been an honour to know you, but I shall trouble you no more. I must find my own way through what... what lies ahead.'  
Erestor shook his head vehemently 'It is too late for such a notion, my friend, for we have climbed Taniquetil together, and I feel already a greater love for you than I do for any other, save only my parents and my brothers. I would rather have you as a friend than have the favour of the entire House of Finwë. Do not leave me now !'  
 'But Erestor, I have brought shame upon you, upon myself, and upon Olórin the Maia whose trust in me was misplaced.'  
 Erestor frowned 'But you have done nothing yet, how could you have brought shame upon anyone ?'

 Glorfindel gave a dry, cold laugh, little more than a snort. Erestor wondered if such a dark sound had ever been uttered at Ilmarin. 'Nothing ? You saw me crushed ! I crumbled and collapsed like the model of a house built by a child. My shame fills my spirit. I shall return to the farm of my family and take pleasure in the things that grow.' But his head bowed, his shoulders sagged, until Erestor thought his own heart would break with pity and sympathy, and with the now overwhelming love for Glorfindel that outshone even the joy granted him by the foresight of the Valar. He put out a hand, restrained himself from burying it in the soft golden hair, and instead laid it on his shoulder. 

 'You will not go back to stay, you will go back to rest and see your family, and soon I shall visit and lure you back to Tirion, where you will find all the purpose and joy that Eru has given us to find. As for your stumble before Manwë and Varda, you must consider this: do you think you are the first to be so affected ? Do you think you will be the last ? Your 'shame' seems less so even than the rashness of the youth who tried to drink ice. I expect that if I had been able to remember my limbs, that I would have tried to use them and fallen into a heap on the floor !  
 Great Eru ! those were the king and queen of Arda, every Elf present was stunned into silence. I think your kneeling was merely an expression of the sense of overwhelming awe that consumed us all. Shame ! ' he repeated, shaking his head and almost laughing.  
 Glorfindel blinked, looked curiously at him, then smiled tremulously   
 'Are you... do you think that ? Truly ? That I have not ruined everything already ?'  
 This time Erestor did laugh 'Look around you, dear Glorfindel, and tell me yourself.' 

 The Elves, calmed by the wine and strengthened by the food, buoyed by the knowledge that the great event was accomplished, and that the return was now a stroll down the mountain, had begun to talk and laugh. A few people were looking their way, but it was obvious even from a distance that Glorfindel had yet to grasp the experience. He looked wildly around, taking control of his breathing with visible effort, and within moments was able to see the others around him, standing politely away. He turned back to Erestor, this time tears gathered in his eyes.   
 'If it were not for you... if it were not for you I think that I would have fled this place and never spoken of it again. Henceforth, dear Erestor, I would trust you with my life. '  
 Erestor found the tears fill his own eyes  
 'Dear Glorfindel, though we have only just met, I feel that I have always known you, and that we shall always be friends. Furthermore, though you may have no rank or title, yet even so I feel more honoured by your friendship than I would feel were I seated at the right hand of Ingwë himself.' 

 Glorfindel swallowed but did not speak, merely laying his hand on the shoulder of Erestor. Their eyes met for a time, their hearts too full to speak. They smiled then, and turned back to the world. There on the summit of Taniquetil they shared the glorious spectacle of Arda laid out before them, the radiance of the Trees and the darkness of the ocean, the Light on the snow and the glowing colours of the high floating clouds.   
   
 


	3. Old Friends ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erestor and Glorfindel attend the celebrations.

Down in the valley, as Laurelin waned, they stood by the open air theatre, watching the laughing crowds and enjoying the glow of physical exertion ceasing. Golden light shone in the wreathing blue smoke from fires of sweet wood; under bright awnings arrays of fine delicacies were spread before them by laughing Vanyar, while others carried trays of brimming vessels of mead and wine. Erestor felt that his heart shone visibly, his joy at the attainment of the summit of Taniquetil seemed to mirror his joy at the fulfilment of childhood. The vision granted him in the presence of Manwë and Varda seemed to lie like a veil before him and the lights on the smiling faces. But the veil did not separate him from the others, rather it lay over them like the opposite of shadow, like the Light shining in through an open door; echoes of the future, whispers, perhaps, of the visions that each Elf had undergone in Ilmarin, fragments of which they had carried down the winding mountain path, to set like gemstones, here and there, scattering the Light across Arda.   
 But he was no Vala, to separate himself from the form of skin and bone in which he dwelt, for his blood sang other melodies, not of light and air, but of molten rock and power, of desire, the hot heart of the mountain. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and turned to look at the focus of his spirit, at the subtle play of the Light and lights in the turbulent fall of the glorious golden hair. 

  Glorfindel had been silent for a while, his shining eyes gazing unseeingly at the lively crowd, his enraptured face still elsewhere; though whether he was preoccupied with the undisclosed vision that he had endured in Ilmarin, or with the intense drama that had unfolded on the stage, Erestor could not tell. Glorfindel turned to him, his radiant features glowing with such enchantment that the heart of Erestor was moved almost to pain. Love pierced him with talons of gold. Glorfindel spoke   
 'That was only the second play that I have ever seen ! I had no idea that such strong... that mere actors could move me so.' he paused, then shrugged ' My parents think such things a folly, but I wonder...'   
 Erestor felt mild indignation 'Art, a folly ?' he said, then remembered to smile, his courtier's manners returning to him gradually after the storm of upheaval. 'You were raised in the country, I think that your parents are not of the Noldor, or so Olórin has informed me. '  
 Glorfindel shook his head. 'No, my mother is of the Vanyar, my father was at Cuiviénen.'  
 'So I have heard.' Erestor nodded, hoping that his ignorance did not reveal itself, for little had ever been told of Cuiviénen; the few survivors lived quietly, shielded by a profound cultural reticence among the Elves, the bone-deep desire to be rather creatures of spirit than of flesh, which the living presence of the Maiar, and especially the Valar, brought sharply into their hearts. To have been fathered and raised by one who was fatherless, motherless, Awakened, went some way to explaining the fascination that Glorfindel inspired, even perhaps in a Maia such as Olórin. The thought of his old friend brought Erestor back to his purpose. He smiled at the eager blue eyes   
 'You should know that "The Arrival of Oromë" is one of the most learned and distinguished plays yet written, it has made a significant contribution to the culture of the Elves. The eloquent speeches, the heart-wrenching words, the fine acting, the beauty of the staging, why, I was in tears at the departure of the Avari. Were you yourself not moved ?'  
 Glorfindel smiled slightly 'I too wept, but you need not persuade me of your cause. I did not say that I agree with my parents. Indeed it is my intention to dwell for a while in the city of Tirion, and to learn more of culture and art !'

 Erestor was silent for a moment, in a daze of shock he realized that he had never considered the future, nor even the next day. He was so caught up in the joy of Glorfindel that the present moment's happiness seemed a permanent feature of the world, as constant and eternal as the Light of the Trees. He looked at Glorfindel with a kind of pale horror. Then, before he could stop himself, he spoke eagerly  
 'I live in Tirion ! Indeed it would be my honour and delight should you choose to make your home with me. It is a small house, and I dwell alone with my books, but there is a fine view of the lake, and a walled garden.'  
 Glorfindel gaped for a moment, blinked rapidly and then clasped the hand of Erestor   
'Truly ? You would have a humble farmer in your house, embarrassing you in front of your important relations ?'  
 Erestor smiled 'Such as Celegorm ?' he asked dryly. Their eyes met in delighted silence, feeling a deep sympathy and trust of each other that volumes of books could not convey, and in the midst of the noisy crowd they felt themselves an island of serenity. The storms of the world could rage around them, but between them a peace had opened, their spirits were attuned, their friendship secure.

 They were quiet for a while, there seemed no need of words, and there was much to see and hear, for music had begun. Erestor glanced from time to time at the smiling Glorfindel, who looked around in fascination. The features which at first had seemed merely handsome had become beautiful almost beyond endurance to Erestor. The transformation of his own spirit in the presence of the Valar had altered the perception of Erestor; the veils of flesh seemed to have dissolved like rising mist, giving him glimpses, as though through the standing, finely flickering flames, through to the heart of Glorfindel, and beyond, as though the Music would manifest to him not as heart-wrenching sound, but as a sharpened vision of Arda, a depth of insight that could almost percieve the operation of the Ainur, and "their terrible sharpness...more bitter than a needle". He smiled to himself, the familiar lines from Ainulindalë had always been his favourite part of the great Song. But he could not grasp what his eyes sought to offer him: the vision of Glorfindel, and thus himself, and all that lived, dissolved in the Song, as a phrase is dissolved in the music.   
 The beauty of Glorfindel, the soft golden skin, the long lashes, the intense blue of the lovely eyes, and the fine, gleaming lips, had set his flesh aflame with love. Erestor choked, his desire turning his mind away from the great avenues of the deep forest to focus on a single tree, on the leaves of a single tree, and on the patterns of light and shade rippling over them as they moved to the wind. He knew, with the last of his powers of thought, that his true wish was to be the wind caressing the tree, but that this was beyond even Manwë himself, for the Music is of Eru.    
  But the spirit of Erestor, expressed only in flesh crafted from the bones of the earth, could not hold the vision in his mind, which seemed to sigh back like a receding wave. The struggle to percieve the spirits of others through the veils of flesh subsided, he returned to awareness of the solidity of the table, and his eyes now saw only the play of the lights on the sculpted features, shining lips and smooth skin of the entrancingly beautiful Glorfindel. 

 A Elf, grave as a courtier, approached and bowed formally, then addressed Erestor.   
 'I believe you are Erestor, cousin to lord Fëanor ?'  
 'That is so.'   
 'I am the director' he bowed again as they exclaimed their appreciation, and smiled modestly; his eyelids lowered, but no other sign of emotion moved the mask of his features. 'I am interested in your opinion of our work this evening. Do you consider that we did justice to the play ?'  
 'It is not easy for me to compare your production with other versions that I have seen, for it has been a day of strong emotional significance for me. ' there was a catch in the voice of Erestor as he spoke, but he decided that his words justified such expressiveness. 'However, I know that we both wept at the departure scene.'  
 'Did you ? Did you indeed ?' he looked for the first time at Glorfindel, who was smiling his sunny smile. 'What did you think of the play ?'  
 Glorfindel looked doubtfully at Erestor and shrugged 'I have never seen it before, I was raised quietly, in the country, I know nothing of such matters. '  
  'Very well, but did you like this experience ? Would you tell people to see it for themselves ?'  
 'Of course !  I thought that it was brilliant ! As Erestor has said, we both wept, it was, it was so convincing ! I seemed to forgot that the actors were only pretending, and felt that I was somehow there, watching real events !'  
 The director smiled like a halved melon and put a hand on each of their shoulders  
 'I wish you would say these things to my actors, everyone forgets them on a day of days like this, which is natural, of course, but if you will join us at our own party' he gestured to the sprawling pavilion behind the stage 'You will lighten my burden by telling the actors how marvellous they are. Believe me, they never tire of it, and if you find yourself at a loss for words' he looked thoughtfully at Glorfindel 'Simply begin to praise them again and watch them glow. '

 

There was a smaller, slightly quieter crowd inside the pavilion; several actors, still in partial costume, were seated, holding court surrounded by admirers, or moving among the colourful guests. An elaborate feast was arrayed on a long, flower-strewn table, though few troubled to eat; the vigorous music filled the air, and rose up through the ground, causing the guests to raise their voices, discussing the play, and each other, so loudly that the few score Elves present seemed far more numerous.    
 The director led them to a small group, Erestor saw familiar faces from social events, people who were in earnest about art and culture, who understood that a performance meant more than a passing spectacle, and that the impact of stories on the culture could barely be understood, or measured. They were considering the subject as Erestor listened, and the familiar paradox that the Noldor approach to the world, of measurement and analysis, of theory tested to destruction, which had simultaneously produced so much of cultural worth, could yet be utterly thwarted in its attempts to measure the effect of their own art.   
 He was welcomed by his acquaintances and joined in the discussion, letting Glorfindel familiarise himself with the situation before attempting to introduce him, or compel him to speak. From the corner of his eye, however, he saw the director question Glorfindel, and Glorfindel smilingly begin his blythe charm conquest. With renewed confidence Erestor returned to his conversation.

 When next he turned, Glorfindel had gone. He could see the director among the crowds, but Glorfindel had disappeared. His heart lurched, he pushed impatiently through the crowd and siezed the director by the arm.  
 'Where is he ?' he cried angrily. The director looked him up and down and sneered.  
 'He is in the dressing room of Melairë, congratulating him and sharing some particularly fine wine. I urge you to remember your manners and not intrude where you are not invited.'  
 Erestor felt his throat close, both with grief at the thought that Glorfindel had been taken from him already, and that it would always be so; and with acute social embarrassment. A silence had fallen around them, and people were staring, enjoying the passing spectacle. His cheeks burned, his whole body burned with embarrassment, passion and rage. He dropped the arm of the director and backed away in silence. As he turned, looking wildly about him, completely lost, he heard voices full of laughter resume their conversations behind him, and he found his nails digging into the palms of his hands as he clenched his fists. 

 After a while he could breathe again, and he sought out wine, and drained a goblet. The presence of the laughing crowd, which had felt so delightful in the company of Glorfindel, seemed now that of a hostile horde; even the familiar faces of the other courtiers seemed to harbour malicious intent. He was bewildered; overwrought and overwhelmed, he could do nothing to calm the storm in his spirit, but he exercised his breathing control and let his body try to recover some of its calm. As he began to breathe more regularly, he saw, to his astonishment, that the actor Melairë had left his dressing room and was moving, alone, through the congratulatory crowd, pausing here and there to kiss one or two. Within moments he was gone. Erestor frowned and looked at the closed door of the dressing room. Glorfindel had not come out. What if he were distressed, in need of comfort... Erestor looked again at the director, deep in conversation, and clenched his jaw shut.   
 Love, greater even than desire, filled him with pain at the thought of Glorfindel, after such a testing day, being insulted by a sophisticate such as Melairë. He glared at the retreating back of the actor, and then at the closed door. None approached it, nor stood nearby. His courage, rising on the storm of love, fear, rage and desire, seemed greater than any feeling that had yet moved the young flesh of Erestor; the hostile horde shrank back in his mind to a mere flock of bright-feathered birds, who would withdraw at a wave of his hand. He seemed barely to recognize the sense of purpose and focus that now drove him, he felt sharper, older, and resolute.   
 Moving as sedately as he could through the crowd, Erestor reached the dressing-room door and knocked softly. There was no answer so he opened it as quietly as he could and entered. 

 The scented room was full of a bright jumble of things; clothes and costumes were everywhere, scarves and necklaces hung from every piece of furniture, in front of the large mirror a table was scattered thickly with face-paints and powders. In the midst of this clutter, like a clean blade on a pile of kitchen scraps, Glorfindel lay, sprawled naked on a long couch, a sleepy smile on his flushed face. He stretched like a cat when he saw Erestor   
 'Here you are ! I was just thinking of you ! Is there any more wine ?'  
 Erestor did not know whether to laugh, cry or scream his rage. He nodded silently and held up his hand. Moments later he returned with a flagon and two goblets. He poured the wine and handed a glass to Glorfindel, who drank gratefully and sighed happily   
 'Thank you Erestor, that was perfect. '  
 'But what happened ? Did he make love to you ?'  
 Glorfindel smiled lazily 'No, I made love to him.'  
 'But what happened ?'  
Glorfindel shrugged. 'He undressed, took my hand and laid it upon his chest. It all happened very swiftly, I fear, for I had no notion of what to do, never having... Well, it was very simple, as simple as beasts mating.' he smiled through lowered eyelids and sipped his drink, then looked up seriously at Erestor 'But it was exquisite for one moment, it was perfect and rapturous. Truly a blissful release! I clung to his body, tasting the salt on his skin as the most delicious thing in the world. But as my mind cleared I realized that I was clutching a naked stranger so I let go. He got dressed and left in silence. We barely spoke; in truth, he did not even ask my opinion of the play. '

 Erestor blinked at him, gaping, he had never heard such a story, but then, he had never met anyone like Glorfindel, with none of the restraint necessity imposed upon people in the crowded courts. He envied Glorfindel his freedom, but that envy was as nothing to his envy of Melairë, which consumed him like the burning pain of ice.   
 He put his wine down and stood up. His fists clenched. The sight and smell of the long, naked limbs, the golden flesh sleek with sweat, the golden hair clinging damply here and there to the lovely face, filled his mind; he could think of nothing, there was only desire in him, he was nothing, nothing but desire. His legs buckled, he fell to his knees before Glorfindel, who lifted himself to one elbow and looked at Erestor in concern.   
 The words burst from Erestor, as the tears burst from his eyes  
 'But I love you !' he cried in anguish and despair.   
 Glorfindel opened his mouth, then paused and stretching forth one hand he brushed a tear away with his fingertip.   
 'Do you ?' he said wonderingly 'But you do not know me.'  
 'That is of no consequence! It is a fact that I love you, and that I always will. This I know. '

Glorfindel sucked in a deep breath, and sipped his wine, looking thoughtfully at Erestor. Then he stretched an arm out and slid his tunic from where it hung over the back of the couch. He pulled it over his head, while Erestor stood, drying his tears with a hand trembling with doubt and uncertainty. He breathed deeply, struggling for air, feeling his flesh burning anew with embarrassment, desire and the barely diminished wrath of his envy.   
 He watched Glorfindel dress in silence, astonished that he had opened his heart so freely, but the wholesome charm of the handsome Elf, fresh as a country flower, had disarmed him; his skills in the subtle games of the court were useless to him, and he was haunted by his fear of the unknown, since he could no longer trust himself to show discretion, at least to Glorfindel. 

The social fear lay before him, beyond the door, and within moments Glorfindel would rejoin the laughing crowds. Erestor was consumed with doubt, cold with fear yet burning with rage, wondering how he could ever meet the eyes of Glorfindel again, and still desperately wondering whether, at some vague future time, Glorfindel would ever come to love him in return. Glorfindel clasped the belt around his waist and smiled kindly at Erestor  
 'Let us find somewhere to talk. I think we do not wish to remain here ?'  
Erestor nodded but did not reply.   
 His courtier's senses could feel people deliberately not turning, but many eyes followed them as they moved across the crowded pavilion to the lavishly garlanded entrance. Beyond the crowds and the noise, with both Trees at wane, the birds were subdued, the air was still and Glorfindel took a deep breath. They walked in silence for a while, both in emotional turmoil, for events had outpaced the capacity of their young minds to fathom. They were beyond speech.   
   
  After a while, sensing that beside him Glorfindel was beginning to feel at peace, the grief at seeing him fresh from the embrace of another cut through Erestor with honed sharpness. Tears began to flow in his eyes and spill forth down his cheeks. He let them drip onto his tunic, but made no sound or movement. A pale luminous moth of great size fluttered past them on the leafy path, Glorfindel gave a wordless cry of delight and looked at Erestor as though to speak.   
 'Oh, do not weep, my friend !' He stopped and looked around, while Erestor hung his head and watched the tears fall straight to the sparkling dust of the path. Glorfindel took his arm gently and led him through some flowering shrubs into a small glade overgrown with honeysuckle and carpeted in thick grass. He gestured to the grass, and graceful as snow, lay down and stretched his long lithe body, his arms folded behind his head. Erestor looked uncertainly at him then lay beside him, resting on his elbow, looking down at Glorfindel, who turned his head and smiled. 

 'How can I help you, my friend ? I would do anything for you, you know that I would. It would please me to be in love with you, for you are handsome and wise, good and true; it would be splendid ! But I am not. '  
 'Do you love him, then ?'  
 Glorfindel frowned 'Who ? Oh, the actor ! ' he snorted slightly 'No. It was the mating of beasts, not the love of Elves. '  
 Erestor sat up and made a choking sound, part smothered exclamation, part cry of pain. Glorfindel also rose and looked at him intently.   
 'Do you wish me to leave you now, and return to the party ? I can apologise to Olórin, I shall tell him that I have offended you...' his voice faltered.  
 Erestor was pale, his face filled with the pain that tore at his heart.  
'No ! Do not leave me ! I beg you !' his arm twitched, as though he would clutch Glorfindel, hold him back, but he did not move.   
 Glorfindel narrowed his eyes. There was another silence. Fresh tears sprang to the eyes of Erestor, who bowed his head, while the tears fell into his hands. Glorfindel sighed  
 'It hurts me to see you suffer, my friend, I wish that I could ease your pain.'  
 Erestor looked up at him, almost hopefully, but the alert, helpful expression on the lovely face crushed his heart. The truth of the words of Glorfindel struck coldly into the core of his spirit. For a moment he almost hated him, but swiftly cast the thought aside as unworthy. He sighed, the tears were soaking into his breeches; the shock of finding, and losing, love in such a narrow space of time had exhausted him. His shoulders sagged, his head drooped forwards and he covered his face with his hands.   
 He did not move or speak as the arms of Glorfindel enfolded him, but wept as Glorfindel laid the head of Erestor on his strong, work-hardened chest. For a while they sat in silence, Glorfindel holding Erestor as he wept, until at last Erestor felt a remote numbness taking the place of grief and pain. His acute mind seemed to watch himself from a distance as he became aware of the white fabric of the tunic of Glorfindel, now soaked with his tears. He shifted slightly and Glorfindel loosed his hold.   
   
 'Perhaps we should seek the advice of Olórin ?' Glorfindel said finally.   
 Erestor shook his head 'It would serve no purpose, for I know already what he would say. He would ask you not to see me for a time, while I heal myself as best I can. He would say that you have nothing to rebuke yourself for, that there is nothing to be done. He would tell me to find diversion, to travel, meet people, throw myself into my work and my life with renewed vigour.'  
 Glorfindel nodded 'I can almost hear his voice. My mother would also offer such counsel. But I think that our case is different. I think that we shall always be friends, that our fates are entwined. I think it may be that I could love you in time, though I do not now. Indeed I do not wish to part with you after all that we have done together. Though it has been only a day, it has been this day, and we were brought together by Olórin for some purpose. It may be that we have some task to accomplish together, or some gift to exchange. I cannot say... I will not leave until you send me away.'

 The bright blue eyes looked earnestly into those of Erestor, who, despite his grief, still found dark humour in the contrast between his own brief hope, and the cold realization of events. The kindness and sympathy were almost worse than indifference, but through the swamp of his misery, the words of Glorfindel slowly reached the heart of Erestor. The thought that he would at least be offered a chance, that he might yet win over the heart of his beautiful new friend, made his heart surge within him; he looked wildly at Glorfindel, his face glistening with tears, but could not speak.   
  The hope was almost more painful than the grief had been. Erestor clutched blindly at his heart, and covered his eyes with his other hand. Glorfindel touched his hand, then took and held it.   
 With calloused fingers, Glorfindel stroked the smooth hand of Erestor. Erestor could scarcely breathe. Glorfindel lifted his hand and kissed it softly.   
 'Shall I make love to you ?'  
 Erestor felt a wave of heat flash through him, he gasped quietly  
 'Do you wish to ?' he asked in surprise. Glorfindel moved his lips, his eyes gleamed in the soft light.   
 'Of course ! You are very handsome, of course I find you desirable ! I like you; indeed, I respect and admire you. But more than that, you are dear to me, I would bring you release if I could.'

 Erestor swallowed, there was a silence, in which a nightingale inspired a nearby flautist. Glorfindel tilted his head and smiled at the sound, but the sight of the smooth line of his jaw, the shadows of his throat, and the memory of how he had looked, naked on the bed of love, swept all doubt or hesitation from Erestor. Passion consumed him. With more daring than he had ever known he possessed, he stretched out a hand and ran the tips of his fingers down the smooth plane of the face of Glorfindel. Glorfindel, eyelids closed, moved his head softly against the caress, Erestor buried his fingers in the shimmering gold hair and raised his other hand to the long sinewy neck. Glorfindel leaned forward and laid his lips softly against those of Erestor, who made a small whimper, and clung to Glorfindel, his heart pounding, the surging desire sweeping aside all doubt and fear.  
  Glorfindel moved his hands to the waist of Erestor, he ran them over the slim body and found it surprisingly muscular and well-knit. He remembered then that this was a noble, cousin to Fëanor, whose whole family regarded the training of their children in sport and game and all forms of athletic endeavour to be vital to the formation of a character. With the fumbling hands of a novice he unbuckled the unfamiliar belt, laid it aside and lifted the tear-soaked tunic over the head of Erestor.   
 Glorfindel was nevertheless surprised at the beauty of Erestor, the hand he had raised to lower Erestor to the ground instead settled on the slim muscles rippling down the firm abdomen, to caress them. Erestor whimpered a little, his body trembled slightly, but Glorfindel, now in understanding of the purpose and goal of these actions, moved swiftly to undress Erestor, and lay his head down on a mossy bank.  
   
 His own body began to fill with desire, here was this lovely young Elf, kin to the finest of families, naked on the ground, pleading with eloquent eyes for Glorfindel to take him. Glorfindel felt that Olórin would not approve, but he did not accept the authority of the Maiar, though they never claimed it; and cared little for anything other than the desperate pain of his friend, and his own growing desire.   
 He lay between the legs of Erestor and lowered himself onto his elbows. Erestor gazed up at him, his eyes large, darkened with desire. Laurelin waxed above them, shrinking the shadows and infusing the air and the foliage with a softer golden hue. Erestor smiled up at Glorfindel 'This light is perfect for your hair. Even if I never make love again in my life, I shall have this one perfect memory. '  
 Glorfindel stooped and kissed him, softly at first, then with increasing passion until Erestor was arching his back, pressing his hips forwards. Glorfindel ran a hand down the naked quivering ribs and flanks, Erestor was ready.   
 Glorfindel slid the hand round and took Erestor in his hand, then began to stroke him, moving back and forth with increasing pace, while Erestor, his head thrown back, his chestnut hair spilled around his pale face, breathed rapid shallow breaths. Glorfindel looked at him with satisfaction, the tears had worked as strong wine, freeing the spirit from the cage of convention. Here beneath the trees, in the cloud of sweet honeysuckle fragrance, lying on the soft grass, was the truth of the Elves; the Children of Eru were formed of the same matter as plant and flower, tree and rock, and the behaviour that came naturally to them was not the behaviour of the etiquettes of courtiers. 

 His purpose, as firm as the rest of him, moved him to part the thighs of Erestor, and with a long look into Erestor's face, he knew that it was time. He smiled almost smugly, thrilled vicariously by the intense intoxication of desire possessing Erestor, and slid carefully into the tight darkness. Erestor moaned, his head thrown back, and clung to Glorfindel, as the pain of the first penetration stretched his muscles. Glorfindel did not force his way in, but gently, cautiously, was soon fully inside Erestor, whose moans had turned to gasps.   
 But Glorfindel slipped his arms out from under Erestor, twisted his wrists to capture those of Erestor, then laid the arms on the ground above his head. With his own hands he held Erestor down and took him, simply, like the beasts.   
 And simply, and almost together, they found release, Erestor in the ecstasy of Glorfindel, watching the beautiful face striving for bliss, feeling the muscular body slamming into his, feeling Glorfindel himself deep inside him, giving everything to Erestor, holding Erestor down while he took him.   
  After the moment of ecstasy, Erestor, his heart overflowing, had spoken softly into the ear of Glorfindel   
'I belong to you. I shall always wait for you if you ever want me, or need me. '  
 'Yes, we shall be lovers, though it is not love as the world would see it. '

 After a time of bliss, in which the gentle fingers of Glorfindel had dreamily caressed his tender flesh, Erestor had tried to sit up, but the work-honed hands of Glorfindel barely exerted themselves to restrain him. Scarcely rested since his first experience, with the beautiful love of his life, the furnace of desire in Erestor intensified. Glorfindel moved to lie on his side, and slid one arm around the waist of Erestor. With the other hand, and his lips, he began to explore the formation of his lover, the smooth skin, the long, loose muscles; in moments the whole nature of the structure became clear to him, he knew this build, this stature. He raised his head, causing Erestor to look up at him  
 'You are a swimmer. '  
 Erestor raised his own head in astonishment 'I swim often, yes, but how...'  
 'I too am keen on athletic pursuits. I have attended some contests, you have the build of those who do well at swimming. The muscles are smoother, I have observed.'  
 Erestor smiled, his love for Glorfindel was of far more significance to him than his desire; fascinated, he asked  
 'Have you always known that you preferred male Elves ?'  
Glorfindel nodded slowly. 'I always admired males, but desire came slowly. Some years ago, a female Elf of,' he smiled, 'of considerable beauty, held my attention, but I think that since she herself confessed to secretly regretting not being male, I feel that knowing her only confirmed my opinion. Yes, I have always known. And you ? '  
'I would have supposed that those crowded Courts, those many handsome Elves, would heighten the senses and increase desire, but I think that we become numbed, perforce, to the storm of noise and movement. But, yes, there was a guard at the House of Finwë, taller than most, about whom I made up stories when we played with toys; and when I grew older I understood why I had acted so...'  
 Glorfindel was fascinated 'What happened then ? What was his name ? Did you tell him how you felt ?'  
 Erestor shook his head, 'I do not know his name, nor where he is. I suppose Finwë had another purpose for him. I have not seen him for many years. '  
 Glorfindel smiled, the long lashes shadowing the deep blue eyes, darkened by desire and the shades of the trees. Erestor breathed in with a slight shudder, as Glorfindel covered his body from without, and desire filled his body from within. 

 They were interrupted by footsteps on the nearby path, and the softer sounds of an Elf moving through the shrubs  
 'Here ! Over Here !' the strange Elf called. Others came running, four, or five, from several directions. Glorfindel looked at Erestor, who looked helplessly back at him. Neither moved.  
   
 There was much rustling as people struggled through the flowery obstacles, but the air of the glade filled with soft yellow petals, which drifted onto the golden hair of Glorfindel. Erestor dreamily lifted an arm and took a petal from among the fine strands, and examined it. A final set of footsteps approached, and the newcomer fought angrily through the small crowd. 

 'There you are, you ungrateful dung-maggot ! What ? Not even thank you ! Not even farewell !  
That such coldness could be yours, after the warmth of your arms ! Never seek me again !'

 The newcomer turned and stamped angrily away; neither Erestor nor Glorfindel had moved, nor even turned their eyes from each other. The footsteps paused, and returned. Erestor, who had not seen the actor without paint before, nor ever in such venomous fury off-stage, was surprised, both by the over-large head, and the big-eyed, bony face, with such a wide mouth. The illusion of beauty produced by the paint seemed all the more remarkable. But in a quiet, cold voice, Melairë was speaking to Erestor.   
 'Who in the void are you anyway, you little... wait, I recognize your face, you are kin to Fëanor, I have often seen you with them, sitting by them... What are you, some distant cousin ?'  
 Erestor smiled icily 'If you wish to petition me, my name is Erestor. Please withdraw, I am engaged at the moment.'   
 Melairë almost snarled, then turned to Glorfindel 'You are on top now, brat, but wait until the big boys get a look at you. Trust me ! ' he leaned forward and hissed his words into Glorfindel's face 'When those pompous tools up in the palaces see you, they will fight each other to get at your arse!  You will become the plaything of some Noldor prince, it is as certain as the Music ! '  
  He stood again, snorted with an indignant scorn in his tone, then turned, this time merely hurrying away. 

 As the last of the crowd receded down the path, Glorfindel said wonderingly  
  'But I met him for only a brief moment...'  
 Erestor smiled with a cynicism that surprised Glorfindel   
  'The first thing he said was a line from a famous play that he acted in. That was the most quoted line. Olórin was right, we can learn much from each other. '  
 Glorfindel widened his eyes for a moment, then looked intently into the eyes of Erestor. The expression of his face shifted subtly, his eyes narrowed a little, Erestor could see the understanding come to Glorfindel that the kindness and candour he had known at home were not to be counted on in the city. His eyes seemed to search the face of Erestor, who knew that the change, the transformation from innocence to wisdom, had begun; sadness had cast its shadow on the cornflower-blue eyes of Glorfindel, which had become older, and were carefree no more. The blythe enthusiasm of Glorfindel was now tempered by insight into the intricacies of the culture of the city in which he would dwell.   
 Erestor, admiring his courage, kissed him with a smile, but his own heart was like the ice in the mountain stream, thrown this way and that by the turbulent water, but endlessly, always, falling deeper into the heat of Glorfindel, where no frost could endure. 

 His bones and muscles seemed to flow with fire, dissolving in the heat from the body of Glorfindel; and from the molten gold of his glorious hair, shimmering in the Light, falling endlessly around Erestor, caressing his shoulders and stroking his cheek. Erestor felt tears in his eyes, not of grief but of marred joy. He looked up into the half-closed eyes, secretly fiercely proud to have aroused such desire in one so lovely. The shadow of the golden hair had turned the eyes of Glorfindel the deep blue of the edge of the shadow at Calacirya; arousal had darkened the centres of the large eyes, which gazed steadily at him. Erestor felt, for a moment, like some child of Cuiviénen, seduced by a mysterious emissary from the Enemy. He smiled at Glorfindel, who smiled back, but then made a soft sound of urgent desire.   
 Erestor knew that if he continued to taste the delight of Glorfindel, that his heart would grieve him in the years to come. His eyes moved down to the lips that had kissed him with such intensity that their normally fine lines had a swollen, almost bruised look. He thought of Olórin, of all who cared for them, seeing the pain that lay like fate across his path, and urging him to think carefully.   
   The eyes of Glorfindel looked deeply into his own as Glorfindel took him in one hand and moved him slowly into joyous abandon. The final efforts of his struggling spirit filled his senses with awareness; the stems of the long grass, twined in his forgotten fingers, shed their familiar, fragrant dews onto him, his knuckles crushed the soft moss, and the yellow petals floated into the palm of his upturned hand. Faint, distant songs from the many celebrations haunted the sweet air. Erestor remembered with a shock that this was still the same day, in the same world. His troubled mind, still unmoved, a last bastion in the overwhelming onslaught of his love for Glorfindel, urged him to return to Olórin. 

  But desire silenced doubt. His lover was upon him, the hand of Glorfindel had triumphed. Erestor sighed as the pleasure grew into rapture, the grass, the glade and the world were forgotten, there was only Glorfindel, the gleaming blue eyes fixed on his as the cunning fingers intensified his desire. Erestor uttered an eloquent sigh, let his limbs slide loosely apart and laid his head back. In his pride, Glorfindel smiled with folded lips as he felt the tension ease in the body of his lover, and lowered his mouth to the throat of Erestor.   
  Erestor looked up at the sky, his spirit hung between the song of his flesh and the soaring visions of Ilmarin. The last of his tears ran into his hair, as the strong hands set flame in his flesh. His eyelids lowered, his head was flung back, as the lips of his lover moved slowly down to his chest. Above them, the golden Light grew as Laurelin waxed stronger; the cool, scented air grew softer as it warmed, and the song of the nightingale was accompanied by a young blackbird, at early practice before the older birds arose.  

    
 


	4. Tra la la.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melairë the actor writes to his lover to tell of meeting Glorfindel

 

Tra la la

Dearest darling Bunny, 

How I miss you, Tirion seems deserted without you and the gang, but especially you, my sweet. I have been hearing truly gushing praise of your Tulkas, and I know that you will be breaking the hearts of all those darling sailors. But really, my dear, it is too dull here without you, and the mere thought of going on again in front of a crowd of tiresome provincials; first time at the theatre, oh my...   
 But Begetting Day is Begetting Day and an Elf must do his duty, yawn...  
 Though I must say that, in a futile gesture at cheering me up, old Peacock-feathers himself, who is directing, told me of a rather special piece among the new crop. But really, darling, when one has had an Elf like you, who could be interested in an uncouth juvenile from the outskirts of nowhere ?   
 Really though, this ghastly theatre just gets more insufferable every time I play here, we are on in minutes, my robe is still being fussed over by those tedious tailors, and the wretched make-up artist complains of wine spilt in the powder jar. Well darling, I explained that it can get a teensy bit wild in here at times, but there is no pleasing some people, you know what I mean.   
 Oh, Eru, the Peacock just came in to scream at me again, must dash, darling Bunny, more later.

 Well ! Gracious Varda, I do not know what to say, Bunny my sweet, for once the Peacock was right ! Oh Bunny, if you had _seen_  him ! Why, even one so jaded as you will be smitten with him ! I saw him in the audience, yes, I know, but you have to _see_  him, Bunny darling, honestly, you must come back at once, what in Arda is the point in staying on in dreary Alqualondë, you have made your point, surely ? Do come home, there's a good boy, and see this lovely creature !   
 Well, of course he is nobody, a farm boy from nowhere, with no connections of any kind, so there is no point to him, as it were, but my dear, what a gorgeous piece ! There he was, shining like a petal from Laurelin, with the most delicious hair you ever saw. Of course, his name is Glorfindel, but anyone could guess that in an instant. Well, I played the whole piece to him, though I could see he had no _idea_  what I was doing, really Bunny, it was like giving flowers to a dog...   
 Well, the play went down a storm, of course these infants just lap it up when they're fresh down the mountain, but I promise you, I did not get carried away and make a joke of it. Really darling, I am perfectly capable of taking these things as seriously as the next artist, but you know, sometimes I need to let off a bit of steam, have a bit of a lark about, you know me...

  Of course you do, that is why you are in Alqualondë and not here with me, where you belong !  
Oh Bunny, how many times must I apologise ? You know that I would do anything for you, do please come home ! (if only to see this marvellous boy !)   
 Where was I ? Oh yes, the party ! The Peacock was as good as gold, and brought him straight to my dressing-room, and my dear, you have simply never... I mean never...  
 His eyes are bright blue, none of that dull Noldor grey, oh no, and his hair... A river of gold, tumbling over those broad, farmers shoulders, and so tall, and strong... Oh Bunny, I may be in love again ! You may think it absurd of me to beg you to come home at one moment, and to tell you I am in love with another the next, but just you wait until you see him, you will understand me then.   
 Well... I just threw my clothes off and offered myself to him, and my dear, he did not hesitate !   
I could tell, of course, that it was his first time, but he took to it with a truly hearty appetite, and I actually thought I might faint at one point... You may well laugh, the whole thing is quite absurd, until you see him, and then you just... you just melt in his hands darling, really you do...

So, I managed to get the clothes off him, ghastly homespun of the drabbest kind... but underneath... solid gold, darling, solid gold. He must be one of those dreadfully hearty types who sees cold water as a reason to get bare and hurl oneself into the depths. Ugh... But by Oromë, it has made him a thing of beauty... Well, there he was, sprawled naked on my couch, smug smile on his delicious face, and I thought 'Oil of Estë...', and hurried backstage to find my precious jar.   
 But alas, the wretched boy had gone when I returned - it seems that the interfering old Maia Olórin had told Erestor to keep an eye on him. You _do_  know Erestor, kin to Fëanor on the mother's side, one of those dreary scholars, though, indeed, a very handsome one. You remember, he wrote that nice piece about your Tata when you did 'The Awakening' that time. Good observation of detail, you said, when you read it. _You_ remember ! 

 Well, I _had_ to find him, I wanted to calm Erestor down and make sure he did not go telling tales to Olórin, (never cross a Maia !) and a few friends helped me to search the Gardens for him.  
 Oh Bunny, that boy is going to break _so_ many hearts. He had Erestor, naked in the grass, and was calmly taking him as though he did that sort of thing every day ! I must admit that I got a teensy bit cross, and I may have shouted at him, a little...  
 Now do not look like that, Bunny darling, I know that look, when your lips go all white like that... Really, I wish you would just shout at me and get it over with, but you do _brood_ so, and then there is no talking to you. You know that I love you, and I always will, but I cannot agree with you on the silent rage thing. You must let it all out, darling, and say what you think, not seethe, and go over and over your lines when you know that you will never ever say them aloud.  
 The craft IS taken seriously, and one rogue like me can do no damage, not to the views of serious people. Not to the sort of people _you_ want to impress.

 Oh Bunny, wait til you see Glorfindel, all these pompous Noldor can go hang, he is the flower of Valinor, the loveliest thing I ever... Really, darling, I am almost sorry that he fell into my lap so quickly, for how we love the chase...

 Still, he is not here now, he has taken lodgings with Erestor, though a beauty like him will be snatched away from the dreary Erestor swifter than a diving hawk. Erestor ! It is such an unlikely coupling that I could almost laugh, had I not seen them with my own eyes. Oh Bunny, I know you say 'save it for the stage', but if you had _seen_ me, I was magnificent, I gave him that line about "the warmth of your arms", and it worked fabulously my dear, he had clearly never seen the play and drank it all in, those golden muscles bunching and rippling as he wondered how to react. But I could see that awful Erestor looking as cynical as you like, and I realized that not only did he know the lines, but would be sure to explain to Glorfindel at once.   
 Well, I am sorry Bunny, but that is just _who I am_ , I am an artist, and my temper sometimes...  
 Oh very well. I really am sorry Bunny, it was mortifying. I had no idea that we would find him already feasting elsewhere, as it were ! Truly, darling, none of us did, or I would not have dreamed of chasing him through the shrubbery.   
 But darling, he had only met Erestor that day, they were strangers, after all, and Erestor (have you remembered him yet ? Stuffy, pompous, completely uninteresting apart from his marvellous bones) Anyway, none of us had the _least_ idea that we would find them already dining, so, in a way, I might be forgiven such a social disaster, since everyone else was really as astonished as I.   
    
 The boy... Nobody knows anything about him. Olórin is saying nothing. The Peacock can find nothing, nobody knows him, nobody has seen him before, it is all very intriguing. There is a rumour that Celegorm may know him, but nobody knows how _that_ could be. Really darling, I am almost rubbing my hands together in sheer glee. For the love of Manwë do come back ! If only to help me find out who in Arda he really is ! Even the Peacock is interested, and you know how rarely he gets excited these days, the old dog ! Dear old Peacock, he will be here soon, we are all going to see Wilwarin to get garnished for the Feast of Nessa.   
 Will you at least return for that ? Please, darling Bunny, do not leave me alone at a time like this. You know that I am serious underneath all this tra-la-la frippery, you know that I adore you and cannot endure the deluge without you beside me ! Come home, darling, do, and see this wonderful creature, though of course, if you fall in love with him yourself I shall slay him !

 With all my love, precious Bunny, from your own dear Melairë. 

 

 


	5. The Kite.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amarië considers love, and Finrod.

The Kite.

  
Amarië watched as the arrow cut the kite-string. The kite, unleashed, soared up to the Trees on the constant wind, then, gradually tilting, it twitched like a shying horse, then began to tumble down into the waiting crowd below. The archer shouted in triumph, while all around the spectators cheered. The three other kites still slid smoothly to and fro across the bright sky, while the next archer readied her bow.   
 The winning arrow had been fished from the Lake, the boats looked tiny from the hilltop, but the two rowers cut a sparkling line across the empty waters. Finrod, who was judging the contest, had turned to congratulate the winner, and the sight of his glowing face and blinding smile stirred a poignant longing in her.   
 It had long seemed to her that since she and Finrod, childhood friends, made such sweet music together, her family, and his, presumed that they would eventually marry. She was not displeased at the notion, for Finrod was beautiful, wise, strong and kind, and an ideal match for her. She had always been fond of him, and he of her. At feasts, they were seated together, they often, and increasingly, found themselves alone together, and although no word or question had been uttered by any of their kin, she could feel the thick vines of their expectations coiling around her, while all the time her heart cried "wait !"  
 For there was something missing, some feeling, some flame that would set them alight, and make a haven of the trap she seemed to face. She felt more yearning at the sound of his harp than his voice. The words she sang, of love so powerful that it consumed the world, seemed to be false, else the love between herself and Finrod were nothing more than a childhood warmth. 

But she could do nothing to hurt him. If he himself felt this great passion, she would accept him, and bring joy to all, while yet she yearned for that spark to kindle within her, and set her flesh alight. But her doubt was real, she had seen no hint of the love the poets describe in the calm, steady eyes of Finrod Finarfinion, he was as warm with her as with a favoured hound, or any friend, but she had never felt that he was pained by separation, or troubled by yearning. For long she had striven with such thoughts, but the freed kite showed her the truth of herself; she knew, in the sanctuary of her heart, that there was nothing between them to bring them together but the weight from the hopes of others, pushing them into collision.  
 The fresh wind on the hilltop seemed to blow the valley heat from her, leaving her mind unusually clear, as one who has taken a draught of stimulating herbs. Finrod smiled at her, his jewels sparkling as brightly as his eyes, but in an instant she saw the truth, for the pools of black in his eyes were as narrow as though she were merely a friend of old, rather than the one he adored. She smiled back, but gritted her teeth. She would find out, she would discover, she would know, what was truly in the heart of Finrod.

Beside her, Orodreth was sipping wine. She smiled to herself, and considered how best to pose her questions, how to learn the heart of Finrod without alarming his shy brother. She thought of Orodreth, as wise as any of his House, yet mocked for his blundering ways with words. She knew that he dreaded conversation, and would choose to flee rather than gossip, but the serious step she was being asked to consider required a serious course of action. She thought of Orodreth, boldly scaling cliffs so sheer that they overhung at the top, leaving the climbers hanging in the air, and wondered again why they were driven to risk themselves so. Orodreth, she decided, would prefer that she simply asked him directly. 

 'What does he say of me, Orodreth ?' she asked with a gentle smile. But Orodreth frowned in puzzlement   
 'Who ?' he said bluntly, then thought for an instant, before continuing 'Oh ! Oh, you mean Finrod, oh...'  
 But she held up her hand with a smile that did not reach her eyes 'Thankyou, Orodreth, I believe that you have answered my question. Please excuse me, I would take my leave.'

 When next Finrod turned to smile at her, she was gone; he frowned for a moment, then shrugged and turned back to the kite-shooting.


	6. Helcaraxë.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel makes his mark on the ice...

▪ "Exile is more than a geographical concept. You can be an exile in your homeland, in your own house, in your room." ~Mahmoud Darwish

  
 The golden haired children of Finarfin sat by golden lanterns at the gold table in the honeysuckle garden, but the darkness lay over them like a cloak.   
 'It would be exile.' said Finrod, after a long silence. None of them turned to look at him. Their untasted food was ignored, they scarcely sipped at their wine. Angrod sighed. After another long, dead silence Aegnor gestured sharply at the decaying garden and almost wailed  
 'But the stench !'  
Finrod looked at Galadriel, who buried her face in her goblet. Since the death of the Trees, the sweet air of Valinor had become fouled, as the dying plants rotted in the cold darkness. They all knew, from the talk of their elders, that the lives of the plants across the Great Sea were very different from those of the delicate and colourful flowers that had once spread their leaves in the Light.   
 Back there, untroubled by the return of a darkness which for them had never been lifted, life would be flourishing yet, and perhaps even those who had remained behind awaited still the return of their wandering kin.  
 Finrod sighed 'Amarië will not...' he broke off; it was pointless to restate their positions, they knew they would be leaving. The restlessness that Fëanor had inspired in all, no matter what personal opinion people had about him, had made them feel as though they had already departed, and that this was now merely a time of waiting with the luggage, while their father dealt with the details. The enclosed garden, once their favourite, where they had always met to discuss important things, was now a place of slime and rot; the falling of dead leaves often the only sound, for all the birds were silent now, the very nightingales were silent, moved by the same shock and fear which gripped even the Valar, or so it was said.

 

 Fingolfin watched the exhausted members of his family take their seats around the brazier, still thickly wrapped, only their eyes showing, only their ice-whitened lashes moving. They stared into the flame, hands outstretched; the children of the Light craved the warmth with an uncomplaining longing which tore his heart. He poured the spiced cordial into a flagon, added honey, and filled the flagon with steaming water. They did not glance at him, but when the goblets were passed into thickly-gloved hands, and the scented steam released their frozen faces from the fast grip of the ice, they began to stir, and look at him. All save Turgon, though Finrod, at his side, put a hand on his shoulder and murmured in his ear. Turgon started, looking at the goblet as at an unfamiliar creature, then, after a brief sip, returning to his stare, frozen as the ice.   
 Though Fingolfin knew that he himself was not to blame for the loss of Elenwë and the many others, he yet was tormented by the fact that he was the leader of their pitiful expedition, and therefore responsible for all. He had to clench his fists to prevent himself leaping to his feet, gesticulating wildly and screaming his innocence and fury at their impotence and insignificance in the vastness of Arda, whose size had staggered his Valinor-bred mind. The cold empty ice, the cold empty sky, the desolate cries of the remote birds of the sea, which scarcely spared the long trudging column a glance, crushed his spirit; he wondered again why Eru had made them so small, so puny, so frail. Why he had made them at all... The memory struck him again, he put aside his goblet and covered his face with his hands, feeling the arm of Galadriel laid across his shoulders. 

 He had been exhausted already, first there had been trouble with the sleds; Orodreth was full of hesitant stammering enthusiasm for a new knot that his mountaineers had devised to grip the parts of a sled together with fewer joints. The knot would be self-tightening, and Fingolfin knew that once he would have loved to hear the tale Orodreth was attempting to pour out, once he would have understood swiftly enough to aid Orodreth when he stumbled over a word, and soothed him with patience and wine until he had shared his delight. But the long darkness, the deep cold, the horror of finding himself, who had neither foreseen nor desired nor imagined being expected to lead, at the head of this forsaken expedition, had deprived him of even his manners.   
 'Oh Orodreth, really, transport is your responsibility.' Orodreth had stepped back, a brief flicker of hurt in his eyes, then bowed in silence and stepped out into the darkness. Fingolfin had raised a hand but then shaken his head slightly and turned back to the meeting with a sigh. They met at the end of every march, the family and the Captains, to regroup and plan. Turgon rose to speak; charged with the oversight of their tents and pavilions, he also had good news, concerning wax and grease to seal more closely the seams of their fabric homes. Fingolfin looked around at the smiling faces and rebuked himself for his dark mood. They were strong, the children of the House of Finwë, and Aegnor even jested that Turgon should use his grease to loosen the tongue of poor Orodreth. But Finrod, as ever, defended his favourite brother  
 'Better to have something worth saying and struggle to say it than to speak eloquently of nothing.'  
  But Aegnor threw a glove at Finrod, and they laughed, drinking their mulled wine and nibbling at their meagre rations as though already sated after a long feast. But the endless howling hiss of the wind, and the shifting groans of the troubled ice gave way to the sharp noise of an ice crack, and the pavilion shook. The sound had been so loud that they rose to their feet, and Orodreth dashed inside  
 'Move ! Run ! Save yourselves ! ' he cried ' 'Ware ice !'

 They hurried out behind him; as the groans of the ice deepened, the creaking crack stabbed across the ground towards them and they watched in horror, such cracks devoured the unwary as though beasts of Morgoth. The crack seemed to pause, then flicked away to the right, like a fallen blot of lightning seeking its path. They hovered, watching the crack as a deadly serpent, waiting to flee the strike. The crack flicked again, the ice shifted, the crack was on an instant at the feet of Fingolfin, who leaped aside. But as he drew his breath, a stillness fell. They waited in the rare silence, the many fingers of the cold wind had paused in their ceaseless quest for the warmth of flesh, and the distant cries of the birds of the open sea drifted faintly across the dark ice. Finrod gestured to him, and to the scarf still loose at his throat. Fingolfin nodded and smiled gratefully as he tucked the scarf back into his thick hood. They had made it their first rule, to watch over each other, for the cold had an insidious quality which dulled the senses and lulled the wit, and many a smiling corpse had been found, hoodless, hair frozen into icicles.   
 The first such corpse had been claimed by the grieving father, who had asked for wood for a pyre. Fingolfin had been forced to dicuss the practicalities with the appalled, bewildered Elf, who had finally agreed to ice burial. They had slowly poured icy water over the corpse until embedded in layers of ice, until buried by the slow grinding weight of falling snow.

 In the stillness the ice dust sparkling in the glow of the tent lanterns was the only thing that moved, until they began to breathe steadily, and the mist to rise once more about their faces.  
  Fingolfin sighed, and drew breath to speak, but the ice beneath them shook, gently at first, but with growing vigour, until the sound began to reach them, echoing back from the hills of ice to the south which sheltered the main camp from the sea wind. They stood poised, hands out for balance, for the shifting ice had been seen to tilt in sheets and swallow whole the unwary. Turgon had already lost his close friend and Captain to a moment of inattention. None who had seen would forget the horror in the staring eyes of the captain as the shocking, stunning cold of the black water gripped his helpless limbs, nor his scream as the black streaming slab of ice, scattering icy water, cascades of snow and fragments of ice, had settled its fathom-thick weight back into the ocean, grinding finally into place on the plains of ice around it, betraying by neither sign nor trace that it ever had nor ever could, be anything other than an immutable grain of the endless vastness of the ice. 

 In the distance, along the face of the ice hills, the rumbling deepened, and a great wave of sound hammered across the plain; the ice shook, their teeth rattled, their bones seemed to tremble from the shaking, not of the ice beneath them, but from the terrible, spirit-shrivelling noise.   
 The sky was clear, the air colder than ever, and the stars of Varda were scattered across the sky like the diamonds in her train. The ice-cliffs above the main camp sparkled blue and grey at the top in the starlight, then deepened to black, before finally glowing again from the reflected lanterns of the camp. But the horrified eyes of the watching Elves saw a wonder and terror that seemed to crush their spirits utterly, for the whole face of the ice was in motion, at first scattering drifts of snow and ice, then beginning a slow vast slide to the east. The great shift broke the face of the cliff, it crumbled, each fragment larger than than the camp beneath. Turgon, as one waking from a nightmare to a tent on fire, cried with horror and darted towards the main camp, but Angrod leaped after him and siezed his arm. Turgon turned with a snarl, his eyes wild with fear and fury, his voice anguished  
 'My wife ! Elenwë is there !'  
 But Fingolfin shouted 'Turgon ! ' and Turgon was still. Fingolfin strode towards him and put an arm around the trembling Turgon, with the other hand he gestured to the staggering ice fall, and shouted against the still-rising assault of the staggering sound.   
 'Wait ! They will be fleeing, you could not give her feet wings, nor bear her more swiftly than she herself can run !' But Turgon turned wild eyes upon Fingolfin, whose heart cracked a little more, breaking in starts, like the treacherous ice beneath them. 

 Their eyes were fixed on the slow remorseless collapse of the cliff, the scale staggered their minds, even after life with the Valar, under the Trees. Despite being darkened by the Enemy, and despite the dying and the decay, Valinor seemed now homely and welcoming in the face of the great vast indifference of the forces of ice and water striving ever against each other in unimaginable conflict, while the insignificant Elves, less than flies on this battlefield, watched in frozen, wordless awe. 

 Each part of the long cliff moved in its own manner, here a mountain would vanish into a roiling, cascading cloud of snow, there a great slab would tilt up on end and slide into the unseen ocean black beneath the ice, then lumber back upwards, tipping over with monstrous waves spilling forth around it, or slide sidewards with a deepening of the dread howl of tormented ice. The lights of the camp were moving towards them, growing brighter as the frantic Elves fled the destruction, but dimmer here and there as the ice devoured the ill-fated. Turgon made a low despairing moan, Galadriel, ever watchful, stood on his other side and put her arm about his waist. He turned to her in anguish but she could only shake her head helplessly. They turned back to the icefall, the breaking segments of ice seemed to suggest purpose, but even the comfort of the thought that there was a guiding spirit ordering this destruction, a mind that could be placated if not reasoned with, even the hope of such thought was extinguished by the sensory barrage, the deafening roar, the great slabs of ice spilling and crumbling, the mountains falling and the mountainous seas rising. 

 Fingolfin felt uprooted like a tree in a storm, exiled and alone. For all his life he had merely advised, suggested, helped. Never had decisions rested in his hand alone, never had his opinion carried such dreadful weight; always before, even when he had seated a House of his own, there had been those whom he trusted, his parents and grandparents, Nerdanel the wise, and Olórin the maia, who could direct his course and check his folly. Now he was alone, no Vala would save them, no Maia come with aid and counsel, no Elf with comfort. Here, so far from home that Lindir the navigator had ceased to speak of leagues at all, he was confronted with disaster on a scale for which nothing, not the wildest legend of the old world, not even the grim blackness of the fall of the Trees, had prepared him. He was alone, in exile, on the empty ice under the indifferent stars, watching helplessly as his people were slain in their thousands, shivering with cold and with terror, the icy hands of the night seeping under his scarf, the icy hands of despair clutching at his heart. 

 The light grew dimmer. Screams began to emerge from the remorseless thunder of crushing ice, amid the roar came faint cries of farewell, or despairing voices uttering the name of a loved one, cut off by the tumultuous collapse of the very surface across which they ran. Faces became clearer, then recognizable, open to the cold air, breathing in screams, or running in clench-toothed silence, torches lashing back and forth as the wind of their desperate race buffeted the flames against the howling ocean of fury that blasted their backs. Turgon jerked in the arms of Fingolfin and Galadriel, desperate to fly into the storm in search of his beloved wife. They gripped his thick cloak and held him back, offering only the silent comfort of their presence, having, indeed, nothing more to give. The first survivor, a guard of Fingolfin, young, fit and steady, staggered to a stop before Fingolfin, tearing the scarf from his face and gasping desperately for breath. He held his hand to his side, his thin face blue around the eyes and lips; exhaustion and the dwindling rations had withered even the fairest of the youthful, and Fingolfin almost wept, wondering desperately what he could have done, other than turn back and leave them, when so many, even his own children, were determined to press on, to see the old world, to abandon home, family, the Valar, the Maiar, fair Tirion... A wave of agonized longing for home choked him for a moment, but Galadriel, a healer, as were all the children of Finarfin, held her silver flask before him. He pulled the scarf from his face and sipped the warming cordial, and smiled at his niece, who nodded and passed the flask to the guard. Others were slowing their flight as they reached the command post, some few still screaming, others shouting warnings or the names of the lost, some in grim silence, many weeping.  

Turgon threw off the arms of Fingolfin and Galadriel in a desperate lunge, then ran among the survivors, searching their faces and calling her name with horror in his eyes. The survivors looked blankly at him, exhausted, stunned and overwhelmed; few could focus on his words, none could answer. But Fingolfin nodded to Finrod, who darted after Turgon, took his arm and led him back to the pavilion  
 'Patience, dear cousin, the feet of Elenwë are swift, await her within, for you are distressed and weak, and the cold is deadly to the unwary. '  
 He led Turgon to a seat, and knelt before him to remove his thick gloves, then rose, smoothing his own face anxiously, and poured him a goblet of the warm spiced wine. Turgon smiled weakly in gratitude, as Finrod crouched before him, searching his face.   
 'Turgon, will you remain here ? Please ? I must help the survivors, but I will send someone to watch with you, and you may be sure that when dear Elenwë reaches us, you will be informed at once.'  
 Turgon looked desperately at Finrod, longing for the reassurance that he knew Finrod could not give him. Finrod removed his own glove and gripped the hand of Turgon.   
 'Elenwë defied the will of Ingwë to be with you on this march. She would never permit mere snow to come between you.'   
 Turgon smiled more warmly, and Finrod nodded with a smile, then stood, laid a hand on the shoulder of Turgon and with a sigh thrust out of the pavilion into the face of the storm. 

 Fingolfin watched while the slow stars wheeled above them, and the roaring ice began finally to slow its tumult, and the lights, extinguished in the black darkness where once the camp had been, now clustered around the pavilion, and began to scatter among the long lines of tents of the soldiers of Turgon, as the survivors were given shelter. The noise of the destruction had seemed to last forever, though Lindir, clutching his precious copy of the Map of the Stars, the original of which had once guided the Vanyar to the sea and hung still above the throne of Ingwë himself, assured them that little more than an hour had passed. He gestured to the stars, now joined in brightness by the thin veil of sparkling ice-dust borne on the wind of the devastation, as though they could be read at a glance, like words.  

The watching Elves fell silent, the impenetrable black of the scoured empty ice filled their eyes and froze their hearts. Fingolfin remembered the words of Doom, 'not even the echo of your lamentation...' He had never understood loneliness before, he now knew, though the many rebuffs he had had from his older brother had made him think that he had. But finally, in the terrible indifference of the Helcaraxë, which could feel neither pity nor remorse, he understood the desolation of exile, and was alone. 

 Galadriel moved first, taking a sip from her flask, and passing it to him. He looked hopelessly at her grave expression, but no trace of fear showed in the calm eyes of the daughter of Finarfin. Around them the others began to stir, as the shock of the devastation gave way to the needs of the living. But Fingolfin could not so recover, for his spirit was as scoured as the cliff face. The grief at the death of his father was raw within him. Exile from fair Tirion, exile from his wife, from all those who had remained, from kin and friend alike, had deepened the wound. This new disaster after the long cruel march; the loss of so many, the loss of Elenwë most of all, and the pain of his own son and granddaughter, stabbed his heart as the spears of the ice. His world had crumbled like the mountains, his heart within him had cracked like the ice, he was part of the ice, like the Elves lost beneath the reshaped hills of the ice. He was frozen.

 But the hand of Fingon was on his shoulder, and he turned to his eldest child and gazed at him in silence for a time, though even his customary pride in his fine son seemed now an unheard echo of former joy. Fingon frowned slightly, and Fingolfin knew that in this nightmare, this catastrophe, this awful death of so many and this loss of so much, and of so much of their hope, that even yet, not only the eyes of his son would be turned to him for guidance, but that all who yet lived would look to him, not only for leadership, but for the strength of spirit they would all need to face the ice ahead. In his shock and exhaustion he seemed unable to believe that he could ever feel differently, or ever feel anything at all. He had no notion of where to find such strength, nor how to lift from his heart the icy blackness that had engulfed it as it had engulfed the lost camp. He sighed, remembering the words of Indis his mother, whose uncle Ingwë had first led the Vanyar to Valinor. She had smiled at his reluctance to greet a fellow child whom he disliked, and told him that Ingwë had always said that by the time the Vanyar had reached the coast, Ingwë disliked almost everyone, but that he had continued politely to solve their problems even as his heart had raged within him at the endless parade of squabbling and minor complaint.   
   Fingolfin sighed, this was no joyful passage to the warmth of the Light, this was a journey into darkness, with little hope, cursed by the mighty and forbidden by Ingwë himself. The blackness around him made him shrink inside, he wanted to cower, the deep and endless cold scoured away each flickering flame of warmth or hope within him, as he searched with gritted teeth for the strength to continue. His mind began slowly to clear, and he knew what must be done. In practical deeds would they find the distraction of purpose, and perhaps even salvage somewhat from the ruin of their world, and there was much that must be done, and done at once. But his darkened spirit weighed at his heart and he stood, still as the others, staring long into the blackness, waiting for hope.

 Fingolfin finally spoke, his voice toneless with resignation   
 'Let us seek the injured.'   
But Orodreth shook his head  
 'Sire, uncle, please do not consider approaching the broken ice, I urge you, and allow none to venture near. These falls... I have never seen one so large... these falls will flow like water, my lord, which collects in pools until it overflows. There may be more falls at any time. Those beneath the ice... They would perish before ever we came to them, risking precious lives for naught.'   
 Even in his anguish, the courtier in Fingolfin could not but smile at Orodreth, ever shy and quiet, whose wisdom and experience in the high cold places seemed to focus his mind, and grant him the wits to discuss his chosen field with a spirit he could bring to few other topics of conversation. His skill had saved many lives on the ice, and gratitude glowed like a dim candle in the darkness of the mind of Fingolfin, warming his spirit.  
 'Thank you Orodreth, I shall so order it. Do you think we shall be able to salvage anything at all from the wreck of the main camp ?'  
 Orodreth shook his head slowly and gestured at the now sharpened sweep of the vast cliff-face. 'My lord, the camp is gone, lost forever, crushed flat. Do not underestimate the scale of the destruction. That slope, that cliff, is many fathoms high, and it fell for a long time. There will be nothing to find but empty ice, and ice which may move again at any moment. '

  
After the last of the survivors had been found shelter, Fingolfin yet stood, Fingon at his side. They gazed at the now quiet darkness; it seemed to defy acceptance that the main camp should be gone, that the vast devastation should ever have assailed their senses. The featureless plain stretched before them, empty of light and life. Fingolfin sighed and turned away, but Fingon siezed his arm  
 'Wait !' he cried urgently. Fingolfin turned to his son in surprise, until his own eyes saw, at the edge of the light, a figure approach. A chill, of other kind to the cold, troubled his skin, but he gestured to a guard with a torch, who hurried to welcome the straggler. It could soon be seen that he bore another in his arms, whom he placed in the arms of the guard with a relieved smile. For a moment Fingolfin hoped still, but the wounded survivor was a dark haired male whom Fingolfin did not recognize. But the straggler was known to him, Glorfindel the athlete, friend to Turgon, and promising soldier in his charge. Fingolfin thanked him personally, and asked, though now without hope, if he had seen Elenwë.   
 'Alas, my lord, if you had... it was impossible... the noise... there was snow everywhere, like a terrible blizzard, armed with teeth and knives, that cut down the fleeing people like a barrage of missiles.  The air was thick with snow and ice, falling in spears and shards of every size, impaling... crushing, it was... I...' Glorfindel swayed, but Fingon held him up, pulled out his own flask and held it to the lips of the fainting Elf. Glorfindel sipped the miruvor, then took a great mouthful and handed the flask back. Fingolfin could see the distracted eyes begin to focus, and smiled at Glorfindel 

  'You have our gratitude, Glorfindel, no other survivor carried an injured person to safety. When a time comes for ceremony, I shall ensure that your heroism is recognized by all. May I ask, before you take your well-deserved rest, whom you have rescued thus ? A close friend ?'  
 Glorfindel, astonished to hear his own name on the lips of the king, held up both hands and shook his head  
 'Sire, no, I beg you, for in truth, I have no notion who he is, I... it... I fell over him, I did not see him in the swirling snow and ice, he was stumbling along in front of me, and I ran into him... I... I fell onto him, but he did not rise. I could not awaken him from his swoon, so I carried him. My lord, it was not heroism, it was the least I could... I beg you not to... to draw attention to my clumsy...'  
 But Fingolfin smiled, and laid a kindly hand on the young soldier, feeling a liking for the deep blue eyes in the handsome face 'Take your rest, soldier, and go with the favour of Fingolfin, for I count your deed heroic, and so shall I remember you.'  
 Glorfindel turned to Fingon, whom he knew slightly, and Fingon smiled  
 'You are the only one to have carried another from the midst of that... that devastation. If that is all that anyone ever knows, it would still be impressive. We thank you, Glorfindel.'

Turgon was rigid, his hands gripped the arms of his chair and he stared into nothing, ignoring the healers busy around him. There were many injured, cut or battered by the flying ice. One thing was plain, none who had fallen had risen again, for below the barrage of splinters and shards, spreading in icy ripples, the cold ocean had come, welling up onto the ice in shock waves from the mighty slabs of ice crashing into the sea. Those who had fallen had been drenched, and their clothes had frozen solid, and they had fallen again, and risen no more, buried swiftly by the deadly blizzard.   
 Galadriel, who had worked with Turgon in her eyes and thoughts, looked up at Fingolfin as he entered the pavilion, but did not need to see him slowly shake his head, for his mood was graven in grim lines of grief on his face. He stood before Turgon, hesitant to finally crush his hopes, fighting off the horror of the loss of the camp, so many of their people, and so much of their store and equipment. He longed for the relative peace of mere hours before; they had felt that their circumstances were desperate then, now, after such catastrophic loss, the death of one Elf, however beloved, seemed a detail in the despairing vision that the future seemed to hold. Fingolfin felt tears burn his eyes, as the familiar bite of sensation renewed, in the warmth after the icy wind, stung his thawing skin. He looked down at Turgon, longing to find words of comfort and hope, but his exhausted mind was as black and empty as the howling plain of ice.

  
The children of the House of Finwë had struggled to rest, the despairing screams of Turgon still echoing in their minds. Fingolfin did not wonder that the cry of an Elf should be clung to as a familiar sound, understandable to their limited minds, to shield themselves from the staring horror of the bone-shattering ice-fall. The healers had gathered in a corner of the pavilion to argue in fierce whispers, while Fingolfin and Fingon had struggled to restrain the screaming Turgon. Idril, in training with her fellow soldiers, had been finally found, but her own tears of grief had her helped to a seat by a bandaged survivor.   
 Finrod finally spoke aloud to his siblings  
 'Very well.' and beckoned to Fingolfin, who hurried over anxiously  
 'Finrod, what is amiss ?' he asked  
 Finrod pressed his lips together, still doubtful, but spoke with the calm certainty of the wise healer  
 'There is a draught, a potion, that we could use to aid Turgon. It will permit him to sleep. Indeed, he will be rendered senseless for many hours. But we feel that the...' he looked anxiously at Fingolfin, then seemed to brace himself 'That the camp will be swiftly restored to order, and that when Turgon awakens, he will find that the activity of moving on will ease his suffering.'   
 Fingolfin gaped at them; the world as he understood it had been destroyed, their main camp, with most of their people, had gone as if it had never been, their course led only into darkness, his mind had reached the end of his strength. But Finrod smiled warmly at him  
 'You also must rest, dear uncle, though we shall not treat you with potions. Aegnor will now go with you to your tent, and watch with you while you sleep. You may think me over-anxious, but I fear that your rest will be broken, and Aegnor will comfort you should his help be needed. '  
 But Fingolfin had no desire to defy the healers, and followed the smiling Aegnor out into the darkness. Fingon, who had joined the healers, looked in still-stunned astonishment at Finrod  
 'But whatever can we do ?'

  
Galadriel, her keen eyes ever watchful, became aware of Lindir, hovering anxiously by the entrance, maps and papers gripped between his hands, watching as the struggling Turgon was persuaded to take the sleeping draught, and breathing more easily as the terrible screams ceased.   
She beckoned Lindir, who stepped nervously towards her, as intimidated as all by the radiance of the daughter of Finarfin.   
 'Have you tidings, Lindir ?'  
He nodded and unrolled a map, Galadriel cleared a space on the table as he spread it open, they weighed the corners with goblets. Lindir pointed to the map, to where the white of the Helcaraxë met the brown of the land  
 'My lady, we think, that is, we calculate, that we may have come too far to the North. The crevasse which drove us so far around may be the first sign that there is' his voice lowered to a whisper 'that land is near, and the cliffs of ice to the South may be from a frozen river, pouring slowly into the sea. The mountaineers say that it speaks to them of a glacier, but we had... we had considered their words folly, for what river could... the scale...' he faltered, but she gripped his arm with wild hope and whispered urgently into his ear  
 'Land ? We have reached land ?'   
He nodded 'I, so we believe, though it may be some leagues hence yet. The calculations say that such a river would thrust far out into a frozen sea such as this'  
 They both looked down, the ice beneath their feet was a constant horror, full of sudden movement or sound, or moaning and howling in long trembling echoes of far away destruction, and prone to swallow Elf or tent at whim.  
 'Oh Lindir, if this is true !' her sparkling eyes shone with joy, she smiled, her tired face more beautiful than ever in his eyes, lit from within by the Light which glowed in her golden hair. Lindir was as hopelessly besotted with the remote Galadriel as the rest, now his heart seemed aflame at her beauty. But she had already turned to Finrod, and was sharing the tidings with him. Finrod turned his own radiant face to Lindir, who clutched his papers protectively before his chest. They were too lovely, the children of Finarfin, breaking the hearts of all, especially him. He had found relief only in the cool remoteness of the stars, and the elegance of the patterns in the numbers that mapped their movements.   
 But Finrod spoke to him 'Are you certain ? Forgive me, Lindir, I know that you do not speak unless your calculations have been checked and rechecked. I myself will lead the scouts, and we are more grateful to you than you can know; when we are at ease before a homely fire, I shall one day thank you more fittingly. Rest now, for we have not yet found land, and may need your skills again ere long. '

 Fingolfin woke to silence, his mind cleared as air after rain. He did not move, but watched quietly as Aegnor stared into the candle, his eyes brighter than the flame, shedding his own Light, which shone like awe on all who dared to meet his fell gaze. Fingolfin suppressed a smile, Aegnor seemed unaware that his eyes had cleared his path through life before him, charming all, and that words of dispute or criticism had been silenced, that disdain had withered in the scorching glance. But Aegnor, who had shunned the painstaking work of hand or mind, had come slowly to patience only in the hunt; watching, and riding, with Celegorm and Curufin, the cousins whom he most admired. His own bitterness at the betrayal of the Burning of the Ships must be as great as that of Fingolfin himself. Fingolfin tried to suppress his own wrath and hurt, and remember that the very light of the eyes of Aegnor, now glowing in the dark of the fall of the Trees, must have already driven the hunters, the sons of Fëanor, to abandon him; for in the darkness shining Aegnor could do naught but draw the gaze of every creature left stumbling in the dim, unfamiliar starlight. 

 Fingolfin sighed, and spoke   
'Where is Finrod ? We must send out scouts at once. '  
Aegnor smiled 'My lord, Finrod himself led the scouts some hours ago. Lindir believes that we may be near land. '  
 Fingolfin sat up, still faint from the exhaustion of horror, and stared at Aegnor, wild hope in his grey eyes  
 'Land ?' he cried, and leaped from his bed. With snake-like speed Aegnor took him by the elbow and lowered him back to sit on the bed. Fingolfin sighed, but looked up at Aegnor  
 'Lindir has found the land at last ?' he said finally, and Aegnor nodded  
 'It seems that the very ice which fell... It seems that this is the nature of the ice upon the mountainside, that it falls little by little down the slopes, crushing all in its path. But those who study such matters say that ice alone cannot rise to such heights as these, and that beyond the fallen cliff, there must be mountains, and land. Lindir knows of no map of this region, for no known traveller has ever ventured here, nor, I think, will ever return here. But he is certain of his course, and expecting to see land within a few marches. ' Aegnor shrugged 'I myself am so far beyond the world that I know that I am, perforce, in the hands of others. But the thought of land ahead has filled my heart with hope that I had thought lost when I saw those cliffs fall.' his anxious eyes looked to Fingolfin, who smiled with a warmth that he could almost feel, and rose slowly to his feet  
 'You are weary, dear Aegnor, watching patiently while I myself rested. Rest now, while we prepare the camp for the next march, and you will find your spirit renewed.'

 

  
 Fingolfin sighed as the strap of the sled harness bit into his shoulder, the ice was ridged and furrowed like a field ploughed by one intoxicated. The sled would stick fast, and they would stop as the runners were hacked free of the splintering ice, moving with dull resignation and the silence of long custom. There had been a time, when first they moved onto the grinding ice, of laughter and jesting, as the starlight sparkled in the cold air, or the everchanging colours of the train of Varda the Kindler fell like jewelled waters, silent as dust, in rippling waves that flickered across the sky, and turned the dark plain to a glowing wonder. But the cold, the hunger, the desolation and terror of the grinding ice had silenced even their words, until it was enough to merely endure. 

The sled moved freely over the smoothest of the ice, giving the idle mind time to drift, and the weary Elves stumbled in their harnesses, the blank emptiness lulling their minds into dreams as they trudged across the endless leagues, too numb to fear the shifting surface in the sharp relentless cold; slow jaws closed on them with teeth of steel.   
 Thick fog had blinded them for many hours, until Lindir had found Fingolfin in the gloom, and urged him to halt, or face the unknown. Fingolfin had given the signal, his spirits weak with relief, he had found the impenetrable mist terrifying, beyond fear of the unknown. It was if his senses had been wounded beyond all healing, or worse, that the world itself had vanished, destroyed at last by the malice of the Enemy. When finally the cries of joy had greeted the first star sighted through the endless fog, the long march had sung as never before, raising their lanterns and their voices to salute the Kindler. But the time of rest had healed their bodies, they had pressed on, desperate to feel the earth solid beneath their feet, each hour on the dark ice draining life from them, the desolation seeping into their bones, colder than the wind. 

 The regular, well-ordered camps of the first days on the ice had given them the illusion of security, of home, but waking to screams of terror and despair as the unstable surface of the ice crushed or swallowed an Elf, a sled, or an entire tent, had driven them to hasten forwards without cease. When their exhausted limbs would bear them no further, they pitched their tents as well as they could, and more were lost to the fierce gusting wind, sweeping unchecked across the endless leagues of ocean and ice.   
 To wake shivering, to meagre rations, pain in every bone, teeth clenched stiff, to face the grim eyes of family and friend, and the silence of kin and fellow, to struggle on, dragging the stubborn sleds over the jagged shards, to be no longer an Elf and a part of the completion of Arda, but merely dead leaves, scattered across the indifferent wasteland of ice, to merely endure...

Beside him Aredhel was coughing. She had been weakened by her rash attack on the bear; one of the monstrous white ghosts of the North, but the only one to have attacked their camp. The mortified scouts found finally the den in which it had slept, buried by snow. Wounded itself, and starving, it had fallen upon a tent, and the screaming had brought the nearby Aredhel in desperation to leap onto the great heaving back and drive her long knife into its throat. She had thrown herself clear, but in its thrashing before death, with the red blood spraying across the anxious watchers, it had caught her arm as she rolled away and broken it like a stick. Though she made light of it, and had refused the offer to ride on a sled, he knew she suffered; her wit and vigour in debate were quieted, and some of the eager pride that she had brought to council was felt now most keenly in its absence. He had ordered the hide of the beast to be preserved, to be turned into a cloak for his daughter; for despite her defiance of all who would direct her, she seemed to him the one who most resembled him in mood, of all his children.  
 Beyond his own bitterness at the burning of the ships, he felt her pain; the wonderful sons of Fëanor, Celegorm and Curufin, whom she had admired as a child, and followed ever in the wake of as an adult, had abandoned her, and her great pride had taken grievous hurt. His exhausted mind trudged as wearily through its futile path of bewilderment as his weary feet sought foothold on the rough, shifting surface of the ice. But there was no knowing the mind of Fëanor, and Fingolfin, shock-numbed in his own grief, abandoned the thought as beyond him, hoping indeed that he himself should never arrive at a place in his mind in which such a deed should seem to him a worthy act. 

 Fingolfin struggled with stiff fingers to steer the sled, a bitter wind blew sparkling splinters into his eyes, blinding him to the shards scattered in their path. He gripped the handles and jerked the sled back into the ruts left by those in front, it settled more evenly and Fingolfin sighed and trudged back to the front to take up again the painful weight of the harness, which seemed to him a fitting symbol of the burden laid upon him by the treachery of Fëanor. Ahead of him, Aegnor had jested, and the rare sound of the laughter of Fingon and Angrod echoed across the dark plain. He knew that Fingon blamed himself for the ship-burning, and felt most keenly the loss of so many, and above all, the loss of Elenwë. The anger of the resolute Fingon, whose innocent valour had swept aside the half-hearted Fëanorians and led the Noldor to victory in that most shameful of battles, that wrath which Fingon, fresh from battle, had turned upon Fëanor, had filled his father with pride, and shame, that he himself had not so confronted his brother. But the words of Fingon, his eyes aflame in his righteous fury, had silenced even the eloquent Fëanor, who had turned away, pale and silent, fey with wrath, his burning spirit brooding on the curses of his nephew. Fingolfin considered Fëanor, and his burning pride, and whether Fingon had truly abashed him, but knew that others had added their voices to his, and that it was both shame and fear that had driven the flight of Fëanor, red-handed from the Kinslaying.    
 The heat of his own rage kept the vultures of his thoughts uplifted, as the eagles of Manwë had once circled effortlessly in the rising air from the Trees. But the vultures waited to tear at the mind of the unwary Fingolfin, and gave him the strength to set foot before foot across the endless dark of the ice, for only thus could he come once more before his brother. Many and bitter were the words Fingolfin intended to utter, his fury would last ten thousand times the length of their suffering on the ice, and no curse or word of contempt could carry the violent rage that seared his spirit. He wished, finally, merely to meet the fell eyes once more, to see for himself what remained of his brother, the mighty Fëanor, whom once he had loved. 

 Fingon raised an arm, and the long column settled to a halt. Fingolfin shrugged off the wretched harness and picked his way across the uneven surface, to where Fingon stood by Angrod at the edge of another black crevasse. Aegnor was uncoiling rope, and securing it to the end of his sled. Fingolfin, sighing, picked up a shard of ice and tossed it into the abyss. It could be heard, bouncing between the thick, sheer walls, until it dropped into the black sea below, the deep splash echoing hollow in the narrow cleft. Aegnor bound the rope around his waist and walked back, then sprinted forwards and leapt, agile as a goat, across the crevasse. In the dim light, the crevasse was wider than his guess, he fell short, rebounded from the dark face of the ice, and slithered down to the end of the rope. His curse as he crashed back into the near side of the crevasse rose eerily from the darkness. But the mountaineers were arriving, and Orodreth led their cautious survey, finding a wider crossing with a stable ledge or shelf a fathom down, which led to a swifter ascent for the climbers. They strung their ropes across the path, and set up their scaffolds, while rations were eaten by the waiting column. The sleds were hauled across, swinging from scaffold to scaffold, and then the long stream of Elves trudged across the rope lines, and wearily took up their harnesses, and leaned into the rising wind, silenced by the remorseless cold and the spirit-sapping darkness of the ice. 

 The ice... The surface seemed crafted for their especial torment, unyielding, yet ever moving, slippery, yet full of cracks and holes in which the soft snow gathered, traps for unwary steps. Those with broken limbs suffered cruelly from the cold, and many perished, unwilling passengers on sleds they had dragged so far. For the struggle to move their tents, their supplies, their armour and weapons, and the many useful tools they had carried had warmed their limbs and strengthened them against the bitter wind.  
 Their path across the landscape of a dark nightmare led them around great boulders, wind-carven into fantastic shapes, that none save their eyes alone had yet seen. They crossed crevasse after echoing crevasse, some shallow, with merely a leap needed to clear, others open to the sea, requiring ropes and the cunning skills of the mountaineers to cross. And for every crevasse it seemed, there were two ridges, stretching away into the distance, that must be crossed. They carried ramps, and laid them carefully on the uneven ice, and by strength of arm each sled was hauled up the face of the ridge, and lowered carefully back down onto the uneven ice. 

 Finrod and the scouts had warmed the heart of Fingolfin, scouring the ice ahead, their lanterns like fireflies in the distance, seeking the smoothest path for the sleds and the weary Elves, tired beyond complaint, heaving on the ropes that chafed their shoulders and burned their sinews.   
 But there were times when Finrod would take Fingolfin aside and speak grimly of fields of great boulders ahead, broken blocks of ice which covered the path and the ice for leagues in either direction. Fingolfin would sigh, and order larger rations for all, and the dispirited Elves braced themselves for a painful time of testing, as they pitted their bodies against their indifferent foe, the ice itself. Each sled must be lifted, by hand, over every boulder, some hard as stone, others flawed with layers of fine dry snow, which slid away when pressed, splitting boulders and tripping hapless Elves. The healers hurried to and fro, struggling themselves over the tormented ice, but too many were lost, perishing from cold, or worse, overwhelmed by cruel despair. 

 The scouts of Finrod returned, the way east was blocked by small broken ice, floating in the black water, in an open channel too wide for their ropes, but impassable for their small crafts.   
Though Finrod was discouraged, Lindir remained certain that land was near, and Orodreth stood with him. Finrod returned to his tent, and Orodreth watched him remove his boots with a sigh and stretch his aching legs. Orodreth found the jar of the salve prepared by their mother, in that other world, which grew less real to Orodreth with every league. He held the jar out and Finrod accepted it with a sigh, his breath steaming in the still-cold air of the small tent. Orodreth pursed his lips sympathetically, the scouts had walked twice as far as everyone else, scouring the frozen plain for danger and losing scores to the deadly ice. But they did not pass their days harnessed to a sled, cursing every shard of the hateful ice. Orodreth had been a keen mountaineer, and at first untroubled by the snow and the cold. But the ice seemed like a slow poison, swallowing their people, creeping with evil intent and brutal weapons to destroy them all, and deep in his heart the cold fear grew, that they would vanish in the frozen waste, and no tale would ever reach his mother of their desperate fate. The words of the curse echoed in his mind, "treason of kin unto kin", and he was awed that the prophesy had been so swiftly fulfilled. It seemed to him that they would never find land, though Lindir and the others were hopeful.   
 Aegnor slipped into the tent  
 'Where is Angrod ? I had thought him in our tent... He is not here ?' he asked, as though there were anywhere that Angrod could hide in the tent that barely had room for two. Orodreth stopped himself from looking around and rose to follow Aegnor 'I shall help you seek him, but Finrod must rest. '  
 Aegnor sniffed the air 'Mint, true-hazel... do you still have some of mother's salve ? A little for my shoulders would be a comfort.'  
 Finrod grinned up at his brother  
 'You know very well that she gave us each a jar, what have you done with yours ?'  
 'Oh Finrod, it is in my chest, but my chest is under the baggage, do not make me unload the sled...'  
 Orodreth laughed, for a moment it was as if they were at home, his brothers bickering amiably among themselves. He could not believe in Fëanor somehow, and the idea that he was the brother of dear father seemed absurd. He hoped that the jesting of his own brothers would never sour as badly. He smiled at Finrod  
 'It is good to know that we yet have the salve in store, for though we come swiftly to land, we are in the realm of ice still, and shall not soon put aside our sleds.'  
 'Put aside !' said Aegnor as the laughing Finrod gave him the jar 'I shall warm my hands on the pyre of that cursed sled, for I begin to loathe it with all my heart.'  
 But Finrod shook his head 'When the snow is gone, we shall be forced to bear our burdens on our backs, and you will soon long for the ease of the ice.'  
 'Never !' cried Aegnor, and stepped out into the bitter darkness. 

Orodreth followed, and laid a hand on the arm of Aegnor 'He is not in the pavilion ?'  
Aegnor shook his head, his eyes anxious, but Orodreth smiled 'Do not fear for him, there has been no alarm, he would have called for aid should he need it. ' Around them, the camp was as ever, the long lines of tents, the empty ice, the scattered lanterns, and those on watch checking rope and sled for fraying and damage. A guard with a lantern came to usher them inside, then apologised as he recognize them. He had not seen Angrod. An apprentice healer, hurrying to the pavilion, also knew nothing, and the four were looking helplessly at each other when the sound of laughter carried over the ice. A furlong into the darkness a pool of light showed, where three guards with lanterns had gathered. With no better aim in sight, they made for the lanterns, the guard and the apprentice following. 

It was Angrod, red with frustration and embarrassment, his cloak covered in bright powder, a paintbrush skittering across the ice in front of him. The guards, not unkindly, were laughing at his discomfiture. He saw his brothers approach and in an echo of the hurt child within, he wailed 'My paints are frozen ! '  
 Orodreth found himself laughing, beside him Aegnor too was laughing, they hurried over to Angrod, and Aegnor put an arm around his shoulders  
 'Of course they are frozen, this is the ice, did you think that the cold would permit a drop of water to remain in this desolation?'  
 Angrod sighed, then looked at the laughing faces around him, then down at his colourful cloak, smattered with a dozen hues of bright paint. His Light heart soon had him laughing along, but he wailed again 'But I wanted to paint the ice, the camp, the...' he waved an arm at the vastness around them.   
 The sky was clear, the stars were sharp and bright, and in numbers that none of them had seen before. To see the sky for once as an artist would see it lifted their hearts, it no longer had the cold blankness of the indifferent ice, full of peril and menace, to be shunned as they hastened to the meagre shelter of their tents. For the first time on the ice Orodreth felt himself free again, free to cherish the beauty of the work of Varda, an Elf of the House of Finarfin, not scuttling to his den like a hunted animal.   
 But Aegnor gave Angrod a gentle shove 'Foolish child, do you await the passing of Varda ? It has been many leagues since last we saw her train. You would perish as you waited, and freeze as hard as your paints. '  
 But to their surprise the apprentice spoke up, his voice soft with awe at the majesty of the stars 'My lords, surely this picture is worthy of remembrance, though none who have come this way will forget it, I am certain. But my lord' he turned to Angrod 'Your brother is right, you need no colours here, for if ever there were a picture that could be worthily captured with mere charcoal, it is this one. '   
 Angrod nodded slowly 'Yes, I have many sketches in charcoal, but the colours at the edge of the light, the gold of the lantern-light and the silver of the ice, blending together...' his voice tailed off, but it was as if the eyes of Orodreth had been opened anew, for now the subtle blues and violets of the ice itself became clear to him. All around him, beyond his fear, the beauty of Arda unfolded, whether Elves were there to witness it or no. His mind seemed to open itself, as once it had opened before on Taniquetil, before the face of Manwë, and he felt that there were wider perspectives than his own, that the wonder and glory of the world, from the fragility of the snowflake to the crushing power of the falling ice-cliffs, must unfold itself fully only to one such as Manwë, or Eru Iluvatar himself.  
  The lanterns cast their shadows long across the fractured surface, revealing depths of colour both on and in the windswept ice; opal and nacre, pale emerald and sapphire, marbled with the pearl and smoke of the rents and fissures that moved with the grinding of the ice. As the Elves turned to each other with awe, an almost forgotten sound echoed faintly across the frozen plain, the desolate howl of a wolf.  
  'Land ! ' cried Orodreth joyfully, and they gripped each others hands, overcome with relief; for though they did not doubt the word of Lindir, the path ahead led only into darkness, and the first scouts had found nothing. But the call of the wolf must signify land close at hand, and the tears sprang forth in their eyes as they laughed and cheered. 

 Angrod forgot his paintbrush as they scrabbled across the ice to the pavilion, where Fingolfin, Fingon and the captains were planning the next stage of the march. The king looked up at his nephews, the apprentice and the three guards, rank and formality forgotten as their excited voices broke the good tidings. All those still in gloves ran out, but the lone cry did not sound again. Fingolfin stood by the trestle table, hand on his rapidly beating heart; hope returned with pain, and scattered the darkness of his despair. The unknown perils and problems of the old world could be faced in time, for the present it was enough, more than enough, to know that land was within reach, that the end of the nightmare was close, that they had not endured in vain. The shock weakened his legs, he gripped the table, then sat hastily before his weakness could be observed. He laughed at himself, at his whining for home, feeling exiled and as lonely as a lost child, for only now, so close to land, did he consider that exile could truly begin. The ice was not a place, it was a nightmare, a world between worlds, where none could live, callous  as the deeps of the sea, indifferent to their little invasion, it would shrug them off, or, like the deep sea, swallow them whole. 

 The camp was astir, all were willing to forego rest and to hasten forwards, and the learned and wise gathered in the pavilion to discuss their plans. But Fingolfin brought the meeting to a swift close  
 'My friends, for so I count you, you and all who have made this crossing with us ! A wolf has been heard, and all here know that such beasts are less foolhardy than we Elves, and venture not upon the ice. We are told also by those who study the stars that land must be near. We are resolved therefore to press on with all the haste permitted by the ice. ' there were snorts at his words, for the fickle ice mocked their expectations with its ever-changing perils. But Fingolfin nodded 'Does any dispute this judgment, or wish to remain out here ?'

  
 So they struggled on, the scouts hurrying ahead, Finrod himself, lantern in hand, out in front, examining the ice for signs of cracks and flaws. He paused, stooped, and then gave a joyful cry, for there on the ice lay the body of a white-coat fox, frozen to the ice. He waved his lantern and the other scouts hurried towards him. Their joy choked them, but their shining eyes spoke all that must be said, and two scouts hastened back to the lights of the march to share the tidings.   
But Finrod pressed forward, his heart aflame with pride, recalling the great day when Ingwë had presented him with the green badge, in honour of his triumph a third time at the scouting trials. For the first time he felt worthy to bear the colours; this was the first expedition that he had led, and they had found their destination. The calls of seabirds grew louder and more numerous, and there were tall dim shapes looming on the edge of sight, as though a silent army awaited them. Finrod paused and held up his lantern, but the feeble light showed little in the gloom, beside him, the scout turned puzzled eyes upon him, but he could only shrug. They moved forward more cautiously, the eerie shapes spread out ahead of them, seeming to be some new manifestation of the strangeness of the ice, until on an instant the eyes of Finrod opened to the wonder, and joy filled his overflowing heart. He gripped the arm of the scout, his eyes almost as bright, for once, as those of Aegnor, but the scout had seen, and shouted joyfully  
 'Trees ! Praise Yavanna ! Land ! Land ! We have found land !'  
   
But Finrod pressed forward, so close to land... He checked the ice, testing with his foot each new segment of the fey mosaic, marking the danger with handfuls of ash, turning aside until a safe route was established. As they neared the rocks, black against the ice, he paused and turned to the scout, his joy had grown, until his heart would burst, but in the heart of his joy a deeper awe unfolded, for this was the Land of the Awakening, the ancient home of their ancestors, the land of Cuiviénen, Home of the Eldar. Tales of myth and legend sprang before his enthralled mind; of the first long march, of the lost Avari, of those who had joined the march but stayed for love of Ossë, of the disappearance of Elwë... It was impossible to believe that Finwë, his own grandfather, had stood on these shores, long before, and called them home.    
 Slowly, reverently, his breathing stilled by awe, Finrod at last set foot upon the comforting hardness of rock, and the tears froze on his face as he wept, throwing both arms around the scout, who wept with him. Closer to, it could be seen that the trees were pines, but so thickly did the snow lie upon their bent branches that their shapes were shrouded and concealed. Finrod broke a small branch and held the twig before his face. The scout silently brushed snow from the needles and they looked in silence upon the first green thing they had seen in an uncountable time. 

 With a joyful shout, Finrod darted away, down across the icy rocks and back onto the ice, sliding and skittering his way as swift as the limits of prudence, to where the vanguard approached. Finrod waved his lantern, and the green branch, crying   
  'Land ! Land !' and hearing his cry echoed with rising joy down the length of the long column.   
Fingolfin glanced at Aegnor beside him in the harness with shining eyes, but was forced to look away, for the brightness of the flame of the joy of Aegnor not even his own father could long endure. They hastened forwards, shedding tears that froze as they fell, as though the purpose of the march were to scatter the ice with the jewels of Elven tears. But within a fathom of the shore Fingolfin halted, and tore the scarf from his face. Aegnor looked at him in concern, but Fingolfin beckoned the Captain forwards.  
 'Unfurl the standards, let our banners be flown as we step forth into the land of our fathers, and summon the musicians ! Sound the silver trumpets, that we may have pride in our arrival here, at the edge of the world of old.'   
 The weeping captain hurried away, as Finrod, struggling for breath, bowed to his uncle and presented him with the pine stem. Fingolfin curled his fingers around it, unable to speak, then held up the small green token of life. He showed it forth to those behind, and a great cheer arose, carried down the long column by those far from the front, echoing across the ice with a joy that seemed to complete the breaking of the heart of Fingolfin. The standard bearers moved into place at his sides, the trumpets sounded, and Fingolfin breathed deeply, eager to take his last steps upon the ice. 

But a new cry was passing up the column, 'Look to the West !' and all heads turned. There in the far West, across the ice, the sky began to glow, not with the red of distant flame, but silver and blue, until the low stars faded, to the dismay of the Elves. Their suffering on the ice had altered them, they were alert to possible danger at every moment, their wounded nerves strung tighter than harpstrings, and Fingolfin gestured to the captain, who nodded and gave the signal to move on.   
 So with caution, not knowing what menace followed in their wake, the Elves blew their trumpets and Fingolfin son of Finwë at last set foot upon the land of his ancestors, and turned to accept the silent gratitude of the marching column now hurrying past to spread out on the rock-strewn shore among the broken floes of ice. Even in his triumph, his very relief at the successful crossing, his mind turned ever to Valinor, forgetting never that henceforth this land would be his home, and that he had stepped from the ice into exile. 

 In the West the sky grew brighter, and Fingolfin sent for Lindir with his map of the stars. But Lindir was more baffled than any, for no sighting of the brightest appearance of the train of Varda had prepared him for the great light glowing across the ice. 

 And silently the Moon rose.  

 

  
 

 


	7. The King of West Beleriand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beleg meets Finrod and goes to Mereth Aderthad against the orders of Thingol.

 

King of West Beleriand.

 

Mablung looked at the exhausted youngster with sympathy   
  'The cave is in this ravine, we shall soon be warm and dry.' Beleg managed a smile, but he was delighted that the journey was almost over. It was his first expedition as a scout, and he was finding the standing still as arduous as the racing from tree to tree that it alternated in. The difficulty of simultaneously moving at speed and remaining silent was greater than he had expected. But Mablung had nodded approval, and Beleg felt his face warm with pride, with any luck, he should make out as a scout.   
  He saw no sign of the ravine, though the noisy waters of the Teiglin had filled the air for some time. The forest was thick, dense greenery above and frequently impenetrable undergrowth made the waning moonlight barely visible, the birds had long since fallen silent, and the summer air was sweet with night-flowers. Mablung held up his hand and stopped. Beleg looked over his shoulder, the forest spilled over the edge of the precipitous cliff, ferns and rock-flowers grew on every crack of ledge, and thick moss rose up the sides like a green tide. The cliff was only a few fathoms high, but the ravine was so narrow it seemed deeper. The vigorous water foamed over the grey rocks in the shallow river. 

 Suddenly Mablung steeped back under a tree, and pulled Beleg with him. He pointed silently, and Beleg saw a faint gleam of light from the cliffside almost under their feet.  
  'Someone is in the cave, that is firelight.' Mablung breathed into Beleg's ear. Beleg nodded. 'Wait here.' said Mablung, and withdrew into the shadows. Several anxious minutes passed, in which Beleg wondered what his chances were of finding his way home alone, never mind surviving the journey.   
 Mablung reappeared, smiling, and said 'This way.'   
 They eased sideways down a tiny ledge and around a boulder that they had to cling to with both hands to get their legs around, onto a narrow shelf leading back into the cave from which the now-friendly firelight glowed. Mablung ducked under the low narrow entrance into a long wedge-shaped cave, with a small fire burning merrily on a hearth of stones built on a low irregular shelf formed in the primal folding of the world. 

  Two well-dressed elves were rising to greet them. Mablung gestured to Beleg   
 'This is my companion, Beleg. Beleg, this is the lord Finrod, son of Finarfin, Lord of West Beleriand, and his friend Vardamir. '   
 Beleg bowed but could not speak. Actual Noldor ! From Valinor ! Not only that, but Beleg remembered a lecture on history that he had attended; this Finrod was the great-nephew of Thingol himself ! He was awed. Finrod's face was fair, more beautiful even than there serene majesty of Thingol, his hair golden-yellow, his eyes joyful, his Valinor radiance brighter than the firelight. Beleg felt scrawny and unhealthy by contrast, even Vardamir, who was serving wine to Finrod and his unexpected guests, looked like a mighty king next to the Sindar Mablung. Suddenly Beleg knew why the Noldor called them 'grey'. Not so much faded as unlit...

  When they had tasted the wine and scrutinised each other, Finrod spoke.  
  'I am delighted to meet you both, it was my purpose to convey a message to your lord, and you will be perfect ambassadors.' He nodded at Vardamir, who searched in a satchel and gave a thick, ornate scroll, with wax seals holding gold ribbons shut. Finrod bowed to Mablung and presented the scroll to him. Mablung carefully wrapped it and packed it away in his knapsack.  
   Finrod smiled 'Now the formalities have been observed, let me invite you in person to Mereth Aderthad, at Eithel Ivrin, at New Year next spring. All are welcome by the grace of Fingolfin, High King. '   
  Mablung raised his eyebrows, Beleg gaped and said 'All ?' Finrod smiled   
  'Every Elf in Beleriand is invited. Fingolfin hopes to ease tensions for the good of all, and to make common cause against our common Enemy. '   
 He smiled again and said 'I hope you will both come ? Fingolfin is already moving supplies to the caves above the springs, ' he turned to Mablung 'Do you know the place ?' Mablung nodded   
  'Yes my lord, Eithel Ivrin is very beautiful, especially in spring when the blossom fills the air and floats in the pools.' Finrod smiled at Vardamir   
  'The poetry of the Sindar, which shines forth in their daily speech...' he said, and Beleg felt sure he was quoting something. But Vardamir was refilling their cups with a wine far superior to anything Beleg had ever tasted. It was deep red, the taste of the grape enhanced by brewing, with something more subtle, woodsmoke in twilight summer fields, a wistful fragrance for the tender nostalgia of youth.  
  Mablung looked directly at Finrod 'Sire, I am no courtier, gifted in words, I know not how to say this; but King Elwë, that we call Thingol, will not like this. Not any of it. He does not like Fingolfin calling himself High King, he does not like strangers, he does not like to travel himself and he does not permit his people to travel beyond his borders. He will not welcome this missive, or this news.' Finrod sighed and bowed his head   
   'Alas, I feared it would be so. Nevertheless, deliver the invitation, not only to your King, but to all your people. Perhaps you can warm his heart. At the very least, whet his appetite. Tell him how much our peoples have to learn from each other, the songs we should share, the stories, plays, poems, art, crafts, skills and techniques we can exchange. Our cultures can only be enriched by coming together.'   
 He smiled warmly at Beleg and raised his cup 'A song !' he cried, then frowned for a moment, and in a true, clear voice sang 

 "I sing now of tall Beleg  
Who stalks the orcs on long lithe legs  
When orc and night at last are still  
He dines and drinks and sings his fill. "

   They laughed, and Beleg blushed and curled his legs under him, which made them laugh even more. Finrod turned to Mablung's smiling face and said   
   'Will you dine with us, my friend ? My task is accomplished and it is but the first day of my journey, yet here I have supplies for many days, will you help us to lighten the load ?' Mablung nodded cheerfully, and looked around the cave   
  'This secluded cave speaks to me of future meetings, emergency supplies, a meeting place... A base, in point of fact.' Finrod nodded slowly,  
   'Your words are wise, and your mood, I see, matches my own. We shall speak more of this. But first, Vardamir, some comfort for our guests, ' he patted his stomach and grinned ruefully 'and for me, it has been a long day!'

  Vardamir unpacked the large woven basket onto the fine rug by the fireplace, there were soft white rolls of strange shape, some with seeds or herbs, there were little flaky pies, small cakes of all kinds, with fruits, spices, nuts... , a rich mushroom pate, a bright salad with a smooth dressing; Beleg's mouth watered. Finrod, laughing, insisted Beleg sample each of the new dishes. 

  Finally even Beleg could eat no more. Vardamir filled their cups, then leaned against the side of the cave and half-closed his eyes. Finrod sat up straight and addressed Mablung.   
  'My friend, since we seem to be in accord, I would share my thoughts with you. For some time I too have been considering the founding of 'bases', ' he gestured around him ' as this cave... But at present my interest is in a place to the north of here, in Brithiach.' Mablung nodded   
   'At the ford.' he said.  
   'Just so. There is level ground by the edge of the forest, a stream issues forth there, it is my intention to build an inn at that place, to staff it with two of my scouts who have recently married, and to use it, as you say, as a base. It is within striking distance of Thingol's northern borders, but not so close as to,' Finrod paused for half a breath 'disturb him. There we can exchange news, or indeed messages.' Mablung nodded   
  'And never leave the cover of the trees.' Finrod raised his cup, and Mablung said 'To you, my lord, I hope your inn, and your feast are the success they deserve to be.

  
***************************************************************************************  
   Daeron, his face white with rage, his jaws clenched painfully tightly, entered the tavern. Concerned friends hurried towards him. He held up his hand   
  'A drink, in the name of Eru !' Swiftly wine was poured, and swiftly he drank. 'Nobody.' he said flatly. Around him, every elf in the tavern rose to their feet, all talking or shouting at once. 

 Daeron blinked, it was like a breaking wave on a stormy shore, uproar... the people, and the sound, surging like the sea. He raised his hands, gradually there was silence.  
   'I asked that we at least be permitted to send representatives, two from each club, but no, he would not allow even one. 'He put his hands in front of his face and dragged them down, a face of utter exhaustion. 'We are permitted, to choose from among ourselves, one solitary individual, to represent the entirety of our ancient and diverse culture. Mablung will accompany the chosen one. Not one single other Elf of Doriath will be permitted to attend this great concourse, this seminar of seminars, this symposium. '   
  He sat down heavily and buried his face in his goblet. There was a shocked silence.   
 Daeron thought of water in a standing pool, gradually rotting and stagnating, filling with dead leaves and dust, until the pool is no more...

 A young, eager voice said   
   'I propose we send Daeron to Mereth Aderthad, it is time he learned some new songs !' The laughter broke the tension but did not alter the grim fact. They were now in isolation from the rest of Elvendom on earth. They were cut off.   
  The foremost of the architects looked at Daeron in despair   
  'But Daeron, my dear friend, you can hardly draw a straight line, there will be much to convey for which an image is essential, and furthermore you will not know which questions to ask.' He grimaced and clenched his fists 'Is there nothing at all that we can say or do to persuade Thingol to see reason ?'   
  The leader of the algebraists said 'If we all went together ?'   
  Daeron shook his head   
  'I am so sorry, I finally begged audience of Melian, but she told me that nothing could sway him. I did not argue with her.' 

  
****************************************************************************************

  
  Beleg was concerned, he could see Daeron from his hiding-place in the tree, sleeping peacefully, his head resting on his satchel of precious scrolls, the choicest works of Doriath, to share with the world. But Mablung seemed to have faded away, Beleg could hear nothing, not a breath, from the deeper shadow where he had lain. A hand grabbed his ankle, he suppressed a yelp but jumped instinctively. A quiet voice from below hissed   
    'Got you, you little rat !' : Mablung was there.  
 Beleg said softly    
  'Mablung, it is I, Beleg ' and dropped down to stand in front of the furious Mablung   
  'I know it is you, you piece of orc-filth, you have tracked us since Doriath, but you forget that I know your footprints like my own, and' he smiled and patted Beleg on the shoulder, 'Anyone less cautious than I would have missed the one you left by the cloven rock at that last stream. By the Valar ! It has taken me all this time to find you ! I'm proud of you, and proud to have been your teacher ! But come, sit with us' he looked down at the sleeping Daeron 'Sit with me, and tell me of your adventures.'

   At last Mablung looked soberly at Beleg   
   'So, you have absconded to meet some new people ? ' Beleg smiled at him with shining eyes and nodded. 'And what will you tell them when they ask for your name ?'  
  Beleg's eyes dropped. He had been so preoccupied with the problem of getting to Mereth Aderthad, he had never considered what would happen once he arrived. He gaped at Mablung. Mablung nodded, it was a grim choice, to stay silent or to utter a falsehood. He patted Beleg on the back   
   'Naturally, it is not possible for you to remain with us at the feast. But do not concern yourself, youngster, we shall consult Finrod, he is wise and kind, he will aid you. For, though what you have done is disobedient to your lord's will; such is the doubt as to the justice and policy of that decision that I cannot but admire your spirit, in choosing wider horizons for your mind. And your courage.' he stood up and laughed 'And your skill as a scout ! By Eru, but I have not enjoyed the chase so much for an age, and I was the pursued, not the hunter !'

    Daeron, who did not know Beleg, was annoyed and upset at first, finding him by the fire upon awakening, but soon warmed to him, particularly since he so thoroughly agreed with Mablung that isolation was foolish. But he would on no account agree to proceeding with Beleg, he had no intention of incurring the wrath of Thingol, whom he personally liked and admired. Finally Mablung, who had been picking up small piles of the red sand and pouring it through his fingers, looked up and spoke   
   'Very well, we shall continue as we have been. But I will take some of this sand, and drop it in a sheltered spot near the gathering-place. You, Beleg, shall await me there.' Beleg nodded. It was doubtless more than he deserved. Mablung grinned and stood, smiling at Beleg while Daeron gathered his belongings 'I will meet you at the appointed place when the evening comes.' 

  
  The red sand stood out among the green grass by the road to Eithel Ivrin. Beleg smiled, the very dust of the road was a different colour here, a yellow-grey; he was, as ever, impressed by the skill and resourcefulness of Mablung. He looked around, close by was a small stand of willows, drooping over a green pool. He nodded and strode across the long grass, waving away the myriad insects hovering among the bright meadow flowers. There was an old white treetrunk, its crown rotting into the pool, which he sat on, to wait for Mablung. 

  As though summoned by the birdsong, the twilight came, and a lantern through the trees. Beleg withdrew beneath the branches, but Mablung hailed him cheerily   
  'Too late youngster, never try to hide near water, the light lingers there...' Beleg parted the willow-fronds; Finrod was there. 

Beleg had found that a growing fascination with Finrod had made him haunt the libraries for scrolls of lore, and the taverns for songs and tales. For Finrod was accounted the finest scout of the Noldor, and Mablung had confessed to longing to test himself against the celebrated tracker. But not only was he a scout, and the winner of many trophies for his skill at the bow; his gifts of music had him praised by bards such as the great Maglor. Daeron had spoken the name of Finrod with respect, as one whose voice he intented to hear at the feast. Beleg looked at the lovely, smiling face under the sweep of pale gold hair and knew that this was an Elf who would be beloved by all, whether he were a king or no. The warmth of the smile of Finrod swept diffidence away.

 Beleg stepped forward, his hand outstretched, an eager smile on his face 'My lord ! There was no need for you to come in person !' Finrod smiled   
  'What ! Not take a pleasant stroll with one old friend, to see another ? And I thought that such was the purpose of this gathering !' Beleg smiled wryly   
  'Indeed, my lord, that is why I... well...' he blushed and fell silent. But Finrod had taken his hand, shaking it warmly, and turning to Mablung   
  'Very well, I shall take care of him, may the stars shine upon your merrymaking ! '  
Mablung turned to go, saying   
  'And may you find shelter from the rain !' But Finrod turned to Beleg, almost in shadow as the light faded   
  'I will take you to the pavilion of the sons of Fëanor, Maedhros will entertain you for my sake, for Mablung, I fear, is right to point out that you can neither give your name nor remain silent. But the sons of Fëanor take the uncanny in their stride, and will not mind a young truant like yourself.'   
  Beleg followed Finrod into the loud, bright throng, dazzled by the lights, sounds, colours, smells, and the glittering multitudes, elves of every possible kin or kind; from stately lords such as Finrod, richly clad and bejewelled, to Green Elves from the uplands of Ossiriand, keeping away from the fires, dressed only in their kilts of woven reeds, with feathers and shells for ornament. 

 The pavilion of the sons of Fëanor was as lavish as Beleg had anticipated, with a strange, box-like theme in its design. It looked purposive in intent; solid, precise, elegant and apt. The very ropes holding up the violet-blue and yellow canvas were threaded with shining strands of some silvery metal, which Beleg was certain were as functional as they were decorative. 

 Finrod pulled aside a tent-flap and was greeted with cheers and cries of 'Finrod! Welcome !' as he led Beleg into the warm, smoky pavilion. Maedhros and Maglor, two of the seven sons of Fëanor, had arisen to greet Finrod, and turned to Beleg. Finrod put a friendly arm around Beleg's shoulder and smiled at him, then at the brethren.   
  'This is a good friend of mine, a notable scout. I beg your lordships' indulgence but since he is present tonight against the will of his lord, he must remain nameless. It is my hope that you will make him welcome, not concerning yourselves with the possibly-questionable wishes of his lord.' 

 There was a moment of silence, Beleg could almost see the sons of Fëanor considering that Thingol was the only Elf-lord to have forbidden attendance, and that therefore he himself came out of Doriath. The brethren resumed their seats in silence, but Maedhros stepped forward with a friendly smile   
  'You are welcome, stranger ! Be sure that the praise of Finrod is praise indeed, and I would rather a smile from him than a wagonload of treasure from a lord of whose wisdom I was in doubt.' Beleg smiled and took his hand.

 The musicians resumed, attendants bearing platters laden with tempting foodstuffs floated by, the sons of Fëanor, sat at ease, resumed their discourse. Maedhros showed Beleg to a couch, attendants offered him wine, he accepted the goblet and a delicacy and looked about him, smiling. But after a few pleasantries, the company made no further effort to include him; he did not feel slighted nor ignored, merely forgotten, for the sons of Fëanor and their followers were close-knit, jovial but terse, and their speech often referred obliquely to people and events of which he was, in any case, ignorant.

But after sharing a goblet of wine with the sons of Maedhros, Finrod had smiled at Beleg, then risen to his feet.  
'Thank you for your company, Maedhros, and for the exquisite wine ! I shall leave my friend the scout here among friends, for there are others I must greet at this great concourse of our peoples !' he raised his glass to Maedhros and Maglor, drank it off, and then, with a last, dazzling smile at Beleg, was gone.

  The candles melted into the haze; the spicy, unfamiliar morsels, the sense of complex, vigorous cultures entirely strange to his own, the very subjects of their speech were outside his ken. Finally he rose, nodded at Maedhros and backed away, slipping silently into the night. Out in the sparkling air, where the rising heat of the festival mingled with the cool stillness of the falling night, Mereth Aderthad was aroar; great bonfires coloured the thin cloud as far as the eye could see, the ear was assaulted with an unsyncopated but oddly harmonious barrage of musics, the aromas of hot food tantalised the nostrils, beneath his feet Beleg felt the damp of the flattened grass tussocks, altering his balance.   
 He sighed, wishing Melian had been able to reason with Thingol, wishing Thingol had seen that union was the only hope of the Elves, wishing the artists, writers and musicians could experience all that was around him, and wishing most of all that his friends were with him.  
  There were folding canvas chairs scattered on the grass, and he sat, stretching his long legs and looking up at the stars twinkling through gaps in the cloud wisps.

  The voice of Maglor brought him to his feet   
  'I fear that we bore you, nameless one, but you must forgive us, for the wine has flowed freely, and in our enthusiasm, or perhaps in our cups, we forget our manners, and neglect a guest brought to us by our beloved cousin Finrod.' Maglor burped with a hand over his mouth then grinned at Beleg and leaned forwards conspiratorially 'The truth is, we mean well, but really, it is easy to get carried away, and to forget that a stranger might not know what you are talking about. '  
He smiled at Beleg 'You are welcome, whatever your name is, come back inside and feast with us, and soon we shall forget that we do not know who you are, and you will forget to care ! And in any case, ' he paused to take a drink from his goblet 'It is not clear to me how someone from Doriath, oops, can complain about being left out by other people.'

 

 

 


	8. Eithel Ivrin

Eithel Ivrin. -   
  Finrod had finally stepped out of the dim, smoke-filled tent into the brightness of the thousand fires of Mereth Aderthad. The wisps of cloud lingered, thinning, in the east, but dawn would not diminish the myriad stars for some time. His eyes were drawn to the dark silhouette of the nearest of the Ered Wethrin, the mountain from which flowed all the springs of Ivrin. He grinned; he would climb the mountain and see the whole of Mereth Aderthad like a glowing lake at the feet of the mountain range.   
  He moved slowly, affected by the excellent, free-flowing wine. But as the fires became hidden by the trees, his head began to clear, and with the sky brightening slowly behind him, he came upon a pool from which the stream he had been following descended in a cascade of little waterfalls, overhung with fern and mossy branches. The first bird sent a flourish of sparkling notes into the air; Finrod, delighted, wished he had brought his harp, in order to pay tribute to such fine musicianship. As the chorus entered, Finrod looked at the clear pool, deep enough for a swim; the swaying green plants had a few fawn-brown fish flickering amongst them, or nosing the sand, but otherwise the waters were empty and inviting. He followed the crumbling sandy bank, holding aside the branches reaching out over or into the smooth water, and turned into the other half of the curved pool, where a sandy beach no wider than a horse at gallop lay scattered with fallen leaves. A gorse bush had strewn its golden flowers like a long cloak about its feet. Finrod sighed happily and looked about him; high above, the sunlight was already upon the peak of the mountain, below among the trees the shadow retreated. Finrod threw off all his clothes and ran laughing into the water, but like all who had crossed the ice, he did not enjoy the cold and soon swam ashore, spread his cloak under the gorse and lay down to rest.   
He was awoken from his daydream a little later by a splashing, and a golden head appeared at the curve of the pool, golden arms flashing through the water. Finrod hoped it was someone he knew, but the figure who rose naked from the water, shaking his golden hair and filling the air with flashing jewels of droplets, though familiar-looking, was a stranger. Finrod froze for a moment, a memory, old and almost forgotten, hovered in his mind, the beauty of the stranger was heart-stopping, but there was something more, almost musical, a sense of harmony. He knew that he had stared for too long, but knew also that the stranger must be accustomed to such a reaction. Summoning all the years of training and practice in good manners at his disposal, he stood   
'Welcome to the pool of the golden flowers' he said, smiling and holding out a hand. The stranger, reaching out to take his hand, looked down, froze, then siezed the hand of Finrod and held it tightly. In a soft voice, with a hint of hoarseness that raised the hair on the neck of Finrod, the stranger said 'Is that what it is called ?' and looked down, then up again into his eyes. Finrod could only be appalled at his own reluctance to release the hand of the stranger. He glanced down at himself, and blushed as he realized how very pleased he was to see the stranger, and found his eyes had already observed a similar reaction.  
Finrod met the shining blue eyes, which seemed to blind him; the features were so beautiful they created a dazzle. The body and will of Finrod were frozen into stillness as his heart studied the stranger intently. But he could not move his hand, he could not even wish to move his hand. It was if he had, after despairing at the end of a long and withering quest, finally attained his goal  
'Better than a silmaril.' he uttered, before his mind could prevent it. The stranger smiled, the long lashes were drying, the long eyes sparkled, the irises complex meshes of gold, grey and vivid blue, his very skin shone. 'Me ? Or the golden flower ?' he said, the tremor of laughter floating through his words. Finrod blushed and lowered his eyes, but not his hand. The stranger lifted his other hand and laid it gently on the back of the hand of Finrod   
'Please forgive me, it is my way to jest, when any sensible person would know it to be unfitting. Your surmise is correct, I think, that something has happened here with us today, and it was no illusion of the Enemy, for he loathes the Light, it will not be his plaything.' He shook himself and looked down at the cloak by their feet.  
'It is for the host to offer seating to the guest. Or we could retire by yonder tree where my own cloak lies ? ' Finrod swallowed, and gestured to his cloak 'Forgive me, I am seldom robbed of speech, nor of my manners. Please sit at ease.' The stranger threw himself full-length on the cloak, crossed his legs and put his arms behind his head. He was so magnificent that Finrod wanted to polish him like a fine piece of furniture. He blushed again and sat cross-legged facing the stranger. There was a long silence. Finrod found his mind in turmoil, his upbringing demanded formalities, pleasantries, introductions... But another part of his mind was urging stillness, silence, there was something of the hunt in the sensation, in their minds, between them. Here lay the stranger, in the pose of surrender and of submission, yet Finrod knew himself to be utterly at a loss, without the experience of either the physical or the emotional to guide him. The stranger lay at ease, like a pile of smooth timber, coated in honey. Finrod felt dizzy, overwhelmed. He turned his eyes to those of the stranger and said quietly 'Tell me what is happening. Please.'   
The stranger smiled up at the sky and looked at Finrod out of the corners of his eyes. He frowned briefly. Then he sat up, crossed his legs and looked curiously at Finrod 'Do you not know ? ' he said softly. They were silent again, exploring each the eyes of the other, and the flickers of colour and expression of their faces. After a time, the stranger smiled 'It is love, beautiful stranger, and I pardon your ignorance, for though I have had much physical pleasure, and shed many tears, I have never understood the tale of Thingol and Melian, until this happened.' He put out his right hand, but Finrod put his left hand out and held it, and the tears sprang in his eyes.   
The stranger looked thoughtful for a moment, then at the gorse, then back to Finrod 'Have patience, I will be swift.' The stranger smiled and stood up, Finrod felt his throat, his whole body, tighten as he watched him reach up to tear strands of ivy from the tall tree behind the gorse, morning sunlight polished his honey-gold skin. The stranger deftly twisted a garland of ivy, plucking gorse flowers and winding them in among the strands. He smilingly placed it on the pale gold hair of Finrod, then, even more swiftly, shaped another for himself. The golden flowers seemed to blend with the golden hair of the stranger, now drying in the spring sunshine. The garland seemed a part, a living part of the stranger, for it moved as he breathed, and seemed always to have been there, golden as the rest of him. Finrod felt his hand being taken again, but did not look away.  
There was silence again, Finrod, still grasping after the memory of politeness, said 'Thankyou. ' The stranger gave a slow smile, and in a soft, delicately amused tone said 'You are welome. ' They were silent again. Finrod was at a loss, he could find nothing within himself but the pressing desire to put his hands upon the smooth golden skin of the stranger, and taste the salt of him. The stranger leaned forwards until his face was almost up against that of Finrod. Finrod moved forward.


	9. Eithel Ivrin ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they grow closer

NSFW GRAPHIC CONTENT ADULT THEMES   
Eithel Ivrin ii. -

 

  
  Glorfindel found his mind ablaze, adding heat to the conflagration in his body. He could scarcely breathe. At the back of his mind, the hunter stirred restlessly, but his heart would brook no dispute. The hunt was over, this dazzling beauty was the dream of his heart; he understood the words of the stranger, his first words; and admired the swiftness of perception. There could be no question, they were in love, and would remain so until the end of the world. The kiss had drowned him, not in cool waters but in molten rock, his skin, his muscles, his very bones seemed to melt and flow, the Light of the stranger reached around him and filled him. He moved his arm, he did not know whether he sought to protect himself or to reach for the flesh of the beautiful Elf. The fire burned furnace-hot, his heart was wrung with exquisite joy and in a blinding moment of ecstasy he felt himself and the stranger melt together, into one.  
As his eyes cleared, he smiled blissfully at the beautiful stranger. The stranger gazed at him in rapture

 'I love you' said the stranger 'that was wonderful !'   
Glorfindel blushed and looked down 'We have not done anything yet' he said softly 'We may have taken up our bows, or indeed, those of each other,'; the stranger blushed now, and lifted his hand to the broad shoulder of Glorfindel, which he began to stroke. Glorfindel caressed the smooth cheek of the stranger with the back of one finger 'I fear that we have merely fired straight into the ground. In my defence, I must point out that love makes novices of us all...'  
The stranger looked at him with wide eyes and said in a slightly charged voice 'Do you... are you... do you suggest that love... that it gets better than that ?' 

  
 Glorfindel smiled and swiftly kissed him 'Strangely no, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I know that we shall both treasure the memory forever. But the arts of love-making form a field of study all of their own, and I have merely glanced at a few scrolls, as it were. ' He looked thoughtfully at the stranger, the face was somehow familiar, yet how could a beauty like this be unknown to him ? Elusive as smoke, a memory floated through his flustered mind, he knew this stranger, he should know... He shook his mind clear, the stranger was regarding him appraisingly from the cool, grey-blue eyes. Glorfindel suppressed a smile, the stranger was clearly accustomed to having his wishes granted; the power shone through him, his physical confidence verged on certainty, Glorfindel wondered where he had found it. The stranger was slighter in build than Glorfindel, the beauty of Lorien rather than Oromë. But Glorfindel was more aware of the mind of the stranger, who had percieved the truth of what had happened, and the value... before Glorfindel had had the wit to speak at all.

   
 Glorfindel put his whole hand on the chest of the stranger and lightly pressed him down, and lay facing him. They looked long at each other in silence, Glorfindel smiled happily, basking in the glow of his own love and the love that he could see in the grey-blue eyes. He had always sought this perfection, he had known that it would be like this or nothing at all. He could imagine no other love that would content him, that could even inspire him. For since they had met, the whole of Arda had become as an old toy, tiny and remote; whilst here, glowing palely like a full moon, was the whole purpose and meaning of his life, this wise-eyed stranger, charming him into bliss.

 He smiled again, and the stranger smiled with him.  The heart of Glorfindel danced in his breast, he lifted his hand and stroked the fine, fair hair back from the brow of the stranger. The skin was smooth, pale golden, the cheekbones wide, the jaw square, the mouth looked subtle, but there was no malice in the features; the word 'charm' returned to his mind. He laughed at himself and kissed the coral lips. The hands of the stranger were in an instant running down the body of Glorfindel, he found himself trembling, almost overcome. He drew back and looked at the stranger, who gazed at him with a slight, anxious frown

 'What is it ? Did I do it wrong again ?' he asked.   
Glorfindel leaned his forehead against the stranger, then looked straight into his eyes

 'No, my love, you have done nothing wrong. ' He sighed 'The intensity of the passion threatens to drown me at your every touch, that is all. But I would show you some of the pleasures of love before you overwhelm me...' The stranger nodded, then kissed Glorfindel

 'I shall remain still, my beloved, while you instruct my body.' Glorfindel swallowed, his head was reeling, his heart pounding, breathing was an effort, it was like swimming in honey. He moved his weight and leaned on one elbow, looking down on the lithe body of the stranger, now lying on his back. The stranger smiled mischievously and put his hands behind his head. Glorfindel laughed but raised an eyebrow, then leaned forward to kiss the stranger, and run his hands over the soft warm skin. When the stranger began to make small noises, Glorfindel ran his hands up the smoothly muscled sides, but the stranger reached out blindly and took hold of Glorfindel in his long fingers. Glorfindel gasped, and the stranger said

 'I apologise. I will remain still.' Glorfindel gave a shuddering sigh and tried to focus on the worried eyes, so close to his own.

 'Be at ease, my beloved, there is nothing to fear.' he said softly 'Lie still.' And he took the arms of the stranger in one hand, and held his wrists together above his head, while with his leg he pinned down the long legs. When the stranger was helpless, Glorfindel felt an appalling surge of power and lust, he looked into the shining eyes, they were darkening, the widening pools spreading the blackness across the shrinking rims of colour. But the Light of his spirit embraced Glorfindel in its radiance; love sang in his heart, too filled with joy to smile or utter words. 

  
He leaned over the stranger, his golden hair fell in drying tresses around the upturned face, casting icicle shadows on the fine bones. Glorfindel traced the soft lips with one finger, then ran his hand down to the base of his throat and rested it there while he kissed him again. The breath of the stranger grew hoarse, his body to feel hot rather than warm, Glorfindel stroked the muscles of the ribs, and the flat hard stomach. The arm of the stranger moved sharply, but Glorfindel had him firmly in his grip. He lifted his head

 'I am sorry, should I release you ?' he asked, making no attempt to do so.   
The stranger looked steadily at him, with clenched jaw, but face blushing vivid with embarrassment. Glorfindel was astonished when, instead of insisting he be released at once, the stranger said, in a voice that had taken immense effort to keep level

 'If you tied me up, you would be able to use both... you could use both hands...' his voice faded to a whisper 'to touch me with...'

 Glorfindel, who had heard of such things, but never thought to try them himself, felt dizzy. But the logic of the stranger could not be faulted.   
Here, between the two of them, the lewd sniggers seemed to belong to that remote toy-town Arda where other Elves dwelt. Here, under the golden flowers, anything seemed possible, and here was his beloved, anxious and embarrassed, and utterly helpless. Glorfindel kissed him softly and tried to think, shreds of his mind were concerned, but he could discern no harm in the proposal; he could not hurt his beloved, he would only be adding to his pleasure. His mind made up, he groped blindly for the belt he had noticed on the pile of clothes cast aside by the stranger.

 The belt was heavier than it had seemed, solid gold; a cool warning breeze blew through his mind as he ran the links through his fingers, his lover was very wealthy indeed. Some of the arrogance now seemed accounted for, if arrogance it was.   
Glorfindel smiled and sat up. The chain was sufficient to bind the hands of the stranger and fasten him securely to a branch from the ivy-covered tree which grew low to the ground at the edge of the cloak. Glorfindel leaned back to appreciate the effect, and, he confessed to himself, to gloat. The long lean body quivered, Glorfindel found his hands moving of their own volition, part of his mind wailed at being deprived of the sight of his beloved, stretched out, helpless, breathless with anticipation and desire. But now his mouth was descending to kiss the pale golden flesh, and his hands to explore the shape and build of the body he would come to know the best in all the world.

 

 


	10. Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and closer

Chain.-

 

  
 The flesh of the stranger was cool, but the heat of his mouth burned Finrod. The hands were warming, drawing heat from deep inside his trembling body. He lay helpless, there was nothing at all that he could do, save cry for help that he did not want. The warm breath was on his face, he shivered, love and longing in his heart as he gazed up into the triumphant smiling eyes, lit from within, glowing down upon Finrod like a fallen star. The stranger kissed him again, briefly, then began to kiss his throat. Finrod could scarcely breathe, his limbs felt as weak as a newborn, his will had dissolved, he was turned all into skin, and every scrap of him was exposed and open to the hands and the will of the stranger. 

  
 The stranger licked the sweat from chest and stomach, his hands exploring the tender flesh of his abdomen, his lips moving down across the quivering flesh, until his mouth closed over Finrod. The wet heat of the mouth of the stranger seemed to engulf Finrod, to consume his entire being, the hardness of the throat pressing against the hardness of his flesh made Finrod gasp and writhe, the furnace within him rose to blind him, he was overwhelmed, love and devotion filled his heart and he cried aloud in ecstasy   
  'I love you ! I would do anything for you !' as the storm of passion shook him. The stranger lifted him by the hips until he hung in mid-air, more helpless than he could have imagined being, feeling the long fingers enter him, probing, exploring. His convulsing flesh opened on the questing hand, then gripped again, as the stranger stretched him apart. He knew what would happen next, and a tiny flicker of doubt entered his mind, there was something insatiable in the stranger, Finrod knew that he was being asked to give more than his love; the stranger wanted everything he was, everything he had, his whole spirit.

 Finrod considered his life until the arrival of the stranger, it all seemed impossibly remote and insignificant. The stranger shone, his bright blue eyes gazing into those of Finrod, full of joy and love

 'How do you feel, my beloved ?' he asked gently. Finrod swallowed but could not speak, vividly aware of the fingers inside him. The stranger kissed him tenderly and moved his fingers, Finrod began to crave more, he longed to feel the stranger himself, not just his hand, he longed to give himself over to the stranger, to be subsumed, taken, possessed...

  
 'I am yours.' he said hoarsely 'Everything I am, everything I have, it is all yours. I belong to you now.' The dazzling smile lit the face of the beautiful stranger, the bright blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction

 'Yes, you belong to me now. I will guard you with my life. I will devote myself to bringing you joy. I will keep you forever.'   
 Finrod smiled happily, muscles that he had not known were tense began to relax, and the stranger made a soft noise in his throat

 'Mine...' he said, his voice hoarse with feeling, and laid Finrod back down on his cloak. He knelt between the thighs of Finrod and looked steadily at him. Finrod understood that a question was being asked in the silence.

 'I am yours. I would do anything for you. I will do anything you wish. I am utterly yours, I worship you with my body.'   
The stranger leaned forward and kissed him, and Finrod felt the stranger, long and hard, move into him. The pressure seemed to be too much, the stranger rested on his elbows, looking down at the anxious eyes, and said

 'I love you. I will not hurt you, not now, not ever. Be at ease, your body understands what is happening to it. It is love, beautiful stranger, our love. ' And Finrod breathed deeply and the stranger shifted his hips and eased deep inside Finrod, who gasped and arched his back. The invasion was complete, Finrod was taken, he wanted to engulf the stranger, he wanted to melt away and be dissolved into the stranger, he wanted to give him the whole world, he wanted to see him... He opened his eyes again, the stranger was looking at him with half-closed eyes, breathing heavily, Finrod was aflame with desire, his blood pounding around his body, his mind melting like morning mist. 

  
 The stranger began to move, Finrod could feel his own flesh resist as the stranger moved forwards, and cling as he pulled away. The broad shoulders blocked out the sun, the bound hands of Finrod worked helplessly, he longed to touch the golden skin, so close to him but far beyond his grasp. The blue eyes burned into his, he had nothing more to offer, he had already given everything he had, he lay still, drowning in passion, silently adoring the beautiful creature that had arisen from the pool to claim him. 

  
 As though released, the stranger began to move swiftly, with strong thrusts of his muscular back, he drove into Finrod, crushing him, burying his face in his throat, covering his eyes with rich golden hair. The body of Finrod, flattened, helpless, lay like armour on an anvil, hammered by the onslaught, feeling the stranger high up inside himself, impaling him, taking him, possessing him. The pleasure began to fill his body, emptying his mind; the stranger was breathing hoarsely, almost groaning, Finrod felt his insides turn to liquid, the heat filled him and he dissolved into bliss. The stranger gasped, clutched Finrod tightly in both arms and jerked convulsively.

'I love you.' Finrod whispered 'I would die for you.'   
The stranger was still gasping for breath, but he smiled and swiftly kissed Finrod 'And I for you, beautiful stranger, I will love you forever.' <

 


	11. Denouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they are introduced

Denouement.- 

  
They had made love three times when the guard arrived; Glorfindel was entering the stranger from behind in a leisurely way, unable to prevent himself. The stranger shone brightly, a faint smile curving his cheek. Glorfindel could not stop caressing him, his hands drawn to the smooth gold skin like rain to the ground. He did not stop when the guard cleared his throat and said

 'I beg your pardon, my lord...' Glorfindel frowned at the guard, the stranger had closed his eyes.

 'What ?' said Glorfindel impatiently. But the guard was looking not at Glorfindel but at the stranger

 'My lord Finrod, The High King requests your presence for luncheon, sire.' Glorfindel froze, and felt the stranger go still in his arms

 'What ? Finrod ? You are King Finrod Finarfinion ? You ?' Finrod looked briefly at Glorfindel, then spoke to the guard

 'Thank you, please tell Fingolfin that I shall have a guest with me. You have leave to go.' The guard bowed, then said

 'Thank you sire.' He paused for half a breath, then said, as deliberately as one playing a winning piece in a game 'Lord Glorfindel.' and was gone.

 Finrod jerked 'Glorfindel ? You are Glorfindel. ha. I should have guessed....'   
Glorfindel, still mechanically moving inside Finrod, put his hand on the back of his head and drew him into a kiss. But now each looked intently into the eyes of the other, and Glorfindel pulled away, stood up and shouted

 'NO !'

  Finrod winced and turned over, but his hands were still bound to the tree and he could do nothing. Glorfindel was swearing under his breath; he picked up a fallen branch, thick enough to kill with, and snapped it between his hands like a twig. Finrod gritted his teeth, this would not even be a dignified death, let alone a heroic one. Glorfindel strode back and forth then turned and threw himself into the pool. Finrod leaned forward anxiously, was he to be left here, helpless...

  
  But Glorfindel was there, rising from the water like Ulmo, shaking his hair, breaking the heart of Finrod. He stood over Finrod and looked at him as though for the first time. Finrod could barely breathe, he felt as if the world, as if time itself had paused, waiting for Glorfindel to speak. But Glorfindel knelt beside Finrod and reached a cold hand out and laid it across his hip and said

 'Nothing will ever stop me from loving you. Your name is not important. If it was, then what has been between us could not have been. But I was once warned that I, that my, my looks would see me turned into the plaything of one of you princes.

 I will not ! I wish to found a House, I wish to be master of my own fate, not the lapdog of some other, not even you. ' His eyes filled with tears 'But I love you, Finrod Finarfinion, and I always will. I am sorry. I thought I had found the Elf of my dreams, who would stay by my side, in battle and in bed, until the end of time, but you, you are the... the king, this is your land, this is your pool, this is your gorse bush. I have wandered into your garden and seduced you.' He grimaced at the sky and then at Finrod and cried 'Why did you not tell me who you are ?'

  
  Finrod sighed 'You did not ask. But I am sorry that you doubt me, for I meant it when I said I would give you everything. I hold to that purpose. I have no wish to be king of anything save your heart. My brother will gladly assume my responsibilities, and I will follow you wherever you go.'

 Glorfindel snorted 'Do not be foolish, I am a soldier, I sleep in a little tent, not a grand pavilion. When I thought you were just another Elf, I could happily have shared my tent with you, but do you think I could endure to see you, Finrod, hunched in the corner ? Do you think your family would tolerate even the suggestion ? It is absurd.'

  
  Finrod nodded 'They would not permit it. But I have another suggestion. As king, I am unable to do as I please, so I will give that to Orodreth. But that which I would choose to do is to explore Beleriand, to follow this river into the South, all the way to the sea, and hence follow the coast up to Vinyamar. I will tell Fingolfin, truly, that I am scouting for bases, and that I need a rest from formal duties. Will you accompany me on this quest, my beloved ?'   
Glorfindel looked down at the naked, helpless Finrod, his anxious eyes fixed on Glorfindel. There was a moment of stillness, then Glorfindel leaned forward to kiss Finrod, saying

 'It is futile, you will never escape them.' When he raised his head again, he was frowning, Finrod shivered, Glorfindel was wet and cold. Glorfindel himself seemed to realize this, and picked up the tunic of Finrod and dried himself with it. Finrod smiled briefly, but made certain no trace of the smile remained when Glorfindel turned to him again.

  
  'I cannot.' groaned Glorfindel 'I cannot be your lapdog.' Finrod did smile this time, and looked at his bound hands

 'But Glorfindel, by this time, the whole of Mereth Aderthad will know what we have done here today. They already know that it is I who am your lapdog.' Glorfindel looked stunned, then glared after the guard, then back at Finrod

 'No ! You can play at being tied up by a handsome stranger, you are King Finrod, for you it is an amusement. For me, it would be a living death. I have my work, I have my name to make, I do not wish to be a mere footnote to your story !'

  
  Finrod sighed and nodded. 'I do understand. We could go to Doriath, I have kin there...' Even as the words left his mouth he knew he had said the wrong thing. The vastness of his powerful family oppressed him 'Oh my love, I would follow you into the uttermost east... Let us leave this place and vanish. We can disappear, I may be a poor king, but I am a very good scout, we can follow the water and melt into the east.'

  
Glorfindel gripped his head in both hands and bowed as if under a great weight

 'I cannot bear it! ' he cried 'I was so very happy ! All my dreams, realized, made flesh, in my arms... And now nothing.' Finrod moaned

 'No ! No ! Do not speak so ! I am here, I would do anything for you, my love, you know that I would ! This is not a game for me, you are my life ! If you walk away from me I shall follow you until you forbid me to pursue you. '

 Glorfindel blinked and looked almost curiously at him, as if the idea that Finrod was sincere was only now beginning to occur to him.

 'What can we do ?' Glorfindel said hoarsely 'Can we leave ?' 


	12. Chain ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and closer

  
  
 Glorfindel suddenly leaned forward and unfastened the chain from the wrists of Finrod. Finrod sat up and looked in mild horror at his bloody, blistered wrists; he had no memory of struggling, it must have been during Glorfindel's lovemaking... But Glorfindel had seen what he had done, and took the wrists in his large hands and kissed them tenderly and looked up into his eyes and said

 'How can you forgive me ?'.  
But Finrod moved closer and kissed him passionately and said

 'I asked you to do it. I will ask you again. I worship you with my body.' Glorfidel sighed, folded the arms of Finrod behind his back and took both his hands in one of his own and held them there, while with the other he caressed his chest  
'You are mine...' he said hoarsely, 'Nothing else matters.'  
Finrod nodded 'Nothing else matters. So long as we are together, there is nothing else.'

 Glorfindel stared at the pool, stroking Finrod absently, holding him easily in one hand while his other toyed with the already-responding flesh. Finrod watched the strong jaw clenching and unclenching as Glorfindel considered their future; the sensation of utter helplessness, so new to a king, was already becoming familiar to him. There was something about Glorfindel, more than his dazzling beauty, there was power in him, native to him, the power of a great wave, or a volcano; an elemental force that could not be gainsaid, nor resisted, but only fled.  
 The golden hair of the beautiful stranger had dried, and Finrod began to recall that head, he knew who Glorfindel was, everyone did, the winner of countless athletic contests, the finest soldier in the whole army; it was astonishing that he had never met him before. He inhaled sharply, nervously, his life as well as his body, was in the hands of this stranger, this beautiful stranger, and all he could think about was his own desire, all he wanted was to lie down and let the stranger, let Glorfindel, take him.

 As though he had uttered his wish aloud, Glorfindel turned and smiled softly

 'Before anything else, my beloved, I would make love to you again. Whatever happens, whatever we do, I cannot think with you naked in my arms, I must have you again.' Finrod smiled and they kissed. Glorfindel bound the hands behind the back of Finrod, and watched his body respond; his breathing quickened, his eyes darkened and his back arched. Glorfindel widened his eyes briefly, this jewel among Elves belonged to him more completely than he could have imagined, he wished to keep him locked away in a high tower, he also wanted to devour him completely; passion surged through him, he gripped Finrod tightly, covering his face and neck with kisses, hoarsely moaning.  
  Finrod seemed to soften in his arms, Glorfindel felt the urgency in him, he turned Finrod over and laid his hands on the smooth hard buttocks, parting them, hearing the soft sounds of desire, between the fast, rough breaths of Finrod. He covered Finrod and entered him again, entered bliss, returning home, to the right place, the place he was supposed to be, where he belonged  
'You are mine !' he gasped, and Finrod leaned his head back and said

 'Oh, I am yours ! ' and Glofindel kissed him, feeling his eyes burn with unshed tears. This was Finrod, whose land they were on even now, the King of West Beleriand, fairest of the House of Finwë, beloved by all, in Glorfindel's arms...  
 Glorfindel was overwhelmed; he was, for the first time, glad that Finrod had asked to be bound, he wondered if he would be able to make love to him if he were released, and then thought of the words of Finrod, words of love, of surrender, of submission.  
'You are mine...' said Glorfindel thoughtfully. Finrod whimpered with desire  
'I belong to you, I would do anything for you. Everything I have is yours. Everything I am is yours. '  
  
Glorfindel, himself close to the oblivion of passion, wondered again how sincere Finrod was. Then he knew what to do. The decision made, his mind cleared, his body relaxed, and he moved inside the helpless Finrod, letting the urgent rhythm take them both to rapture.

When their breathing had returned to normal, Glorfindel laid Finrod down and stood up

 'I will be swift' he said, and vanished into the trees. Finrod, almost anxious again, struggled into a sitting position, his hands still bound behind his back. But Glorfindel was returning, pulling his tunic over his head, already dressed in shoes and breeches.  
 He smiled down at Finrod  
  'Come, my love, I will take you to your pavilion. It would be futile to attempt to go to my little tent. At the least, your pavilion has guards and we may have privacy there.' He stooped and picked up Finrod, who realized with horror that Glorfindel intended to carry him into Mereth Aderthad naked and in chains.

  
  He thought frantically; all his words of devotion, of submission, came back to him. He knew that Glorfindel was testing him, and he understood why. He thought of the reaction of the other Elves, and compared that to the possibility of disappointing Glorfindel, and all these thoughts flashed through his mind between one breath and the next.

  
 He smiled up at Glorfindel and licked his throat

 'I will love you forever' he said.  
Glorfindel lowered his eyelashes 'I want to kiss you again, but if I do, I will make love to you again. '  
Finrod smiled and said 'There is a large bed in my pavillion. And food.'

 Glorfindel looked stricken 'Oh no' he groaned 'I am so hungry, and now you have reminded me...' Finrod laughed  
'Well, your timing is good, since we are invited to feast at the table of Fingolfin.'

 And Glorfindel carried Finrod Finarfinion down the mountainside and in among the wagons and tents until they arrived at the central aisle where the pavillions of Fingolfin and his family were pitched, and the crowd of curious Elves followed them to the porch of the green pavillion of king Finrod, where Glorfindel stopped, then turned to face the crowd. There was a silence. Glorfindel looked at their faces, then smiled coldly

  
'He is mine now.' he said, and carried him into the shade.

 

 

 


	13. The Table of Fingolfin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turgon makes a confession

The Table of Fingolfin.-  
  Finrod heaved a sigh and squeezed Glorfindel's hand. Glorfindel grinned at him and rubbed his thumb on the back of Finrod's hand. The aides swept back the curtains and they entered the large white pavillion, full of the rest of Finrod's extensive family. Fingolfin rose and around him the others followed suit. Finrod realized that the Light within himself and Glorfindel was casting shadows in the shade of the pavillion, and people were gazing at them in wonder. He smiled and bowed slightly, then led Glorfindel to Fingolfin. Fingolfin stepped forward and gestured to the empty couch on his left, then embraced Glorfindel and said  
 

 'Welcome to the House of Finwë, I know that I speak for all of us when I say that we are proud to have the famous Glorfindel join us. Welcome !' There was enthusiastic cheering from the richly-clad elves, but Finrod gritted his teeth; it seemed Fingolfin must have chosen those very words to inflict the maximum injury to Glorfindel, and to undo all the work of reassurance that he himself had been doing. Glorfindel's jaw was clenched, but he smiled warmly at Fingolfin and said 'It is I who am proud to have been chosen by the fairest flower from such a mighty tree.' 

  
 They sat, and were served with fine red wine and a platter of jewel-bright delicacies, then Fingolfin turned to Glorfindel and said

 'But tell me, kinsman, how can it be that you did not know Finrod, nor he you, when you met this morning ? Were you still under the sway of the wine ? '

 Glorfindel smiled and shook his head 'That cold bathe would clear the mind of whole barrels worth of wine ! Nay, sire, for in truth I am at a loss, all those here ' he gestured gracefully around the circle of couches 'Are well known to me, save my beloved Finrod. As to how this has come to be, I truly cannot say.'.

 Fingolfin frowned and looked at Finrod, who shrugged and said

 'My lord, I am mystified myself. I know 'of' Glorfindel, but I have never met him until today, I do not see how, or why, this has happened.'

   
On Fingolfin's right, Turgon stood up. He was blushing, and cleared his throat.

 'I, ah, it was I. ' He paused, every eye was upon him, in astonishment. Glorfindel's eyes cold and narrow, his lips pressed together. Turgon shifted nervously; Glorfindel was the best fighter in the armies of the Noldor, which meant, effectively, in Middle-Earth. If Glorfindel wanted Turgon dead, he would slay him before Turgon could draw a dagger to defend himself. He took his courage in his clenched fists 'I wanted Glorfindel to marry Idril. I wanted his bloodline to join with ours.'

 Idril's silvery laugh filled the air 'Oh father, you are such a fool, Glorfindel's tastes do not favour the gifts that I could offer him !' Glorfindel, who had always been fond of Idril, smiled at her, but held Finrod firmly by the hand.

 But Finrod was staring at Turgon, saying in a low, dangerous voice 'What have you done, Turgon ?'  
Turgon bowed his head  'I kept you apart. I made sure Glorfindel was sent away when Finrod would be there. For more than two centuries.'

 Finrod frowned 'But why ? What could...how were you able to foresee that we would fall in love ?'  
Turgon blushed and shook his head 'I foresaw nothing. I actually saw you fall in love. It was outside the House of Fingolfin in Tirion; I was with Glorfindel, and you entered the square from the other side, and you were laughing, striding along without a care in the world. Glorfindel gripped my arm and said....'

  
  But Glorfindel had stood up, fists clenched 'Who is THAT !' he said, and Turgon stepped away, and fell backwards onto his couch. Glorfindel stood over him, watching him cringe, in silence. Turgon finally said quietly   
'And then I said "That is Finrod, eldest son of Finarfin, of the House of Finwë" as if to say ' "you are not good enough for him." And you bowed and went away. Then Finrod...' He looked at Finrod, whose eyes were full of tears and said 'Oh, I am so very sorry, I... How could I know...' 

  
 But now Finrod was standing beside Glorfindel, holding his hand (holding him back, hoped Turgon) and looking coldly at him 'You could have known because moments after he asked you about me, I asked you about him. And what did you say to me ?'

 Turgon bowed his head 'I told you he was just a soldier.' 

  
Glorfindel had forgotten Turgon, he gazed at Finrod 'You asked him about me ? You remember that day ? He did not even tell you my name ? The Light was there !'

 Finrod nodded 'I followed you here, across the ice, though I did not know it. The Light went on ahead, and when my father turned back, I knew I had to follow the Light... And here you are !' They kissed then, and those nearest shielded their eyes. Turgon turned to leave but Fingolfin stopped him with a gesture. 

  
 Finally Glorfindel sat down, and pulled the laughing Finrod onto his lap, threw both arms around him and clung to him like a drowning elf. Turgon rose and apologized again but Finrod waved a hand dismissively

 'Turgon, please sit down, think on it no further. We have met. ' he smiled remotely and added 'It may be that you have helped us, for it is certain that I would have made life even more difficult for Glorfindel if we had met in any other way. ' He looked at Glorfindel 'Do you really know everyone here except me ?'

 Glorfindel looked, smiling, around the room; next to Turgon, his daughter Idril and his brother Fingon; beside them Maedhros and Maglor, sons of Fëanor, and on the other side Galadriel and the brothers of Finrod. He nodded

 'All but you, my love' 


	14. The Pavilion of Finrod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel meets Gildor in the pavilion of the king.

  
The Pavilion of Finrod

  
  
  Gildor sealed the canvas door closed behind them, the roar of Mereth Aderthad diminished a little, and Glorfindel's eyes began to adjust to the dim light of the interior of the pavilion. Above his head flaps of canvas were raised on thin silver twigs, casting narrow beams of light across the furniture and letting the warm breeze stir the curtain which hung between the rooms. The curtain itself was fashioned of ropes of pearl, with hollow silver beads scattered among them, which tinkled softly as the curtain rippled. Bright light came from behind it, Glorfindel moved towards the curtain, and stared through it in astonishment.

  
  The back of the pavilion had been opened to lead onto an enclosed garden, whose walls were formed by the back and sides of three other large pavilions. Within the green space, three silver birches grew, and a silver hammock was hung between two of them. There were flowering shrubs in beautifully painted earthenware pots, there was a low couch, a table with four chairs, and a small silver statue, of Oromë with a sleeping hound at his feet.

  
  Glorfindel looked down at Finrod, who lay naked in his arms,

  
  'This is how you live when camping in the field ?' he said in astonishment, his eye caught by the silver beads of the curtain of pearls; they were formed out of skeletal silver leaves, curved into beads, hollow and transparent, letting through the light and air, still tinkling in the gentle breeze.

  
  'Mereth Aderthad is not 'the field', at least, not for me. I must help with the work of diplomacy here, the alliance has many problems within itself - it would be toil enough without the enemy, you know well how quarrelsome my family are, and I must entertain them here. The field...' he laughed softly 'The field is the dining table and the dance floor. And the quiet conversation in the garden. '

  He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against the tunic of Glorfindel

  'Help me...' he said in a whisper.

  
  Glorfindel pressed Finrod against his chest for a moment, still gazing through the curtain; in the other room there was great bed with a silver cover. Embroidered hangings of silver thread shimmered in the moving air, there was another couch, another table and chairs, bedside tables, a mighty chest, deep green carpets on the floor, and in the middle, surrounded by towels, a silver bathtub, resting on silver tree roots.

  Glorfindel, who had been a guest in more than one palace, nevertheless found himself astonished at the luxury in Finrod's quarters, in a tent in a field. He turned to look at the main room, it was huge, a great dining table filled one half, in the other an ornate desk and carven chairs faced a third couch with two comfortable chairs grouped near it around a low table. There were more green carpets on the floor, and another silver statue of Oromë, but this time the hound sat up, its ears pointed forwards alertly, it looked ready to race into action. They were wonderful sculptures, Glorfindel was about to ask who had created them when Gildor spoke.

  
  'My lord, it is time for your bath and your massage.' Glorfindel noticed then that Gildor was wearing an apron over his fine clothes, and had a towel draped over his arm. He looked at Gildor with narrowed eyes

  
  'Do you tell me that you bathe and massage Finrod every day ?'

  
  Gildor lifted his chin proudly 'It has been my honour to look after my lord Finrod since he left the care of his parents, sir.'

  
  'Thank you Gildor' said Finrod into the astonished silence of Glorfindel 'But I think I will manage without you today.'

  
  'Very well sire. Shall I have breakfast brought to you ?' Gildor glanced coldly at Glorfindel for a moment, but Finrod spoke again

  
  'Something cold, I think, small delicacies, you know the kind of thing I like. ' he glanced up at Glorfindel 'Is there anything you would prefer for breakfast, is there something particular that you enjoy ?'

  
  Glorfindel felt his stomach clench with hunger 'I should like whatever you have ordered, but also some soup, and fresh bread ?'

  
Gildor bowed, hand upon breast, then put the towel into Glorfindel's fingers, and looked seriously at him  
  'Take good care of him Glorfindel, or you will face the wrath of his entire family' he clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes at Glorfindel 'And I, Gildor Inglorion, will pursue you to the end of the world if you hurt him.'

  
  'Thank you Gildor, I am glad that you care for him so much. I hope you will stay with him, although from now on I shall bathe and massage him myself.' He looked down at Finrod with gleaming eyes, and Finrod felt the breath catch in his throat.

  
  Gildor bowed again 'With your leave, sire ?'

  Finrod turned and smiled at him 'Of course, but I hope you will not leave altogether, although I fear that the presence of Glorfindel will add to your labour. Perhaps we could find you an assistant ? ' he smiled 'We shall speak more on these matters. But now, you may go, and let none be admitted, I shall not be receiving guests for lunch today; please send my regrets and tell them that I shall apologise in person later.'  
  
 

When Gildor had gone, Glorfindel sighed, then carried Finrod through the tinkling curtain, and lowered him gently into the silver bath. The water steamed slightly, the metal rim was warm beneath his hand, he shook his head slowly. Finrod looked up at him in concern

  
  'What ails you, my love ?'

  
  Glorfindel smiled and kissed Finrod on the forehead 'It is merely my awe at the luxurious manner of your life. I am only a soldier from a farm in the countryside, this rich elegance makes me feel... simple, simple and unsophisticated. Foolish, in fact, and coarse.'

  
  Finrod smiled up at him 'You are Glorfindel, the finest athlete in Valinor, and doubtless in the whole of Middle-Earth; your beauty is a matter of song; and I love you so much that it hurts...  
 But you are embarrassed by my furniture?'

  
  Glorfindel's cheeks reddened, but he smiled as he spoke 'You see ? I was right, foolish and coarse. It's merely... it is all so different...'

  
  Finrod sat upright for a moment 'But you are Glorfindel himself, of whom I have heard many tales, indeed, I myself saw you win the garland at the last games, though I am still surprised that we have never met. Members of my family speak of you as a friend, you must have visited their homes in Tirion, surely ?'

  
  Glorfindel nodded 'I... yes... I have been even in the palace of Finwë himself, but you, you are the lover I caught bathing naked in pools of Eithel Ivrin, ' he frowned 'How can you also be Finrod Finarfinion, king of West Beleriand ?' he shook his head 'It is too much, I cannot imagine it.'

  
   Finrod was silent for a while, but Glorfindel's hands moved over the pale golden body in the silver bath, covering the long limbs with the smooth foamy soap, and rinsing them with the silver ewer. Glorfindel could not grasp how they would get through this first day together, much less how he himself could find a place in such a world. He looked down at Finrod, gleaming in the water like a half-submerged statue of silvery gold; he paused, his heart pained him with the intensity of his love, and the fact that Finrod had yet to even suggest that he be freed from the chains choked him with love and longing. Finrod looked up at him, a warm smile in his eyes

  
  'Tell me where you came from, farm boy, tell me of your childhood.'  
  
  Glorfindel paused for a moment and gazed out at the rustling trees

  
  'My mother was of the Vanyar, her sister is married to a distant cousin of Ingwë, so we are remote kin ourselves ' he smiled dryly at Finrod 'But I was never invited to the House of Ingwë, though I never grieved at the loss. For I was raised to the north of Tirion, in a quiet way, on a farm amidst my father's beloved orchards. He himself came from Cuiviénen, and wanted no part of life in the city.'

  
  Finrod exclaimed wordlessly 'I knew that ! Of course, you are Glorfindel himself, I too cannot grasp it in my mind. ' he looked wildly at Glorfindel 'What is happening to us ?'

  
  Glorfindel stooped and kissed the warm lips, they were silent for a while, as Glorfindel slowly bathed his perfect lover, the Elf of his dreams.

  
  'We are falling deeper in love' he said finally 'I think it is not the differences between us that disturb our minds, it is the swiftness with which our hearts have united. '  
  He helped Finrod to his feet and began to cover the rest of him with soap. Finrod looked thoughtfully down at the golden head bent over him, his eyes seemed to burn him as love swept through him, with the unstoppable power of the ocean.

  
  'I would do anything for you, my love, you mean more to me than all of this' his arm jerked as though he would gesture around him, Glorfindel, his head still bowed, smiled secretly to himself, feeling the blood course in his veins, feeling the desire rising in him, that soon he could sate, for a while, in this exquisite body, this exemplar of Elves. But Finrod was speaking, Glorfindel looked up, to see shining eyes gaze down at him

  
  'You mean more to me than all of Beleriand, I would leave with you now, should you ask it of me.'

  
  Glorfindel swallowed   
'I know that you would. But I am a mere soldier, I cannot keep you even moderately, out in the wild, it would be a matter of hard endurance for both of us. We cannot leave, we would be miserable. Besides, we cannot abandon our friends, nor you your family, we are needed here.'

  
  Finrod grinned at him, he raised his eyebrows, Finrod laughed then, 'I have formed a plan, which I will not share with you until you speak of your childhood. What was the name of your farm ?'

  
  Glorfindel, unused to pondering weighty matters, shrugged off thoughts of the future and soon grinned back

  
  'It was called Little Gold Tree. '

  But Finrod was gaping at him in astonishment 'You come from Little Gold Tree ? My...we... I was raised on your produce, we used to collect the labels, because of the gold trees, your pastries... the one with a whole peach inside, stuffed with rasperries, I was always given that as a treat on Begetting Day. It was you !'

  
  Glorfindel laughed 'Not I, my beloved, my older sister created that recipe, she makes all the pastries. My father tends the orchard and my mother grows the herbs. I ran around getting in everyone's way until I was sent off to learn at the feet of Manwë, who sent me to follow in the train of Oromë. ' he smiled at the statue, then turned to Finrod 'Where your cousin Turgon saw me, and spoke to me of swords, and I became a soldier for his House.'  



	15. Maglor's Pageant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel performs in front of Finrod

Maglor's Pageant.-  
Finrod, uncomfortable in hot, formal robes, sat by Fingolfin in the front row. The amphitheatre was filled with thousands of elves, chattering as they awaited the start of Maglor's ambitious pageant. Nothing less than the entire history of the elves, starting with Cuiviénen. Finrod was eager to hear the music; slightly envious of Maglor, who could compose as easily as he sang, whereas Finrod himself was best at playing the works of others.

 Fingolfin was speaking to him 'I hear Glorfindel will be performing ? has he told you what his part is ? '

 Finrod shook his head 'He said I should be surprised.' Fingolfin, who had made sure he knew exactly what was planned, nodded silently. Finrod would indeed be surprised. 

  
The musicians played a fanfare, silence fell, and in the starlight the beams of two lanterns lit a pale figure in the centre of the stage. Finrod stiffened, already the body rising into the light was known to him... Glorfindel, naked, enacting the Awakening... Fingolfin laid a hand gently on Finrod's arm, but Finrod smiled briefly, reassuring him.   
 The magnificent Glorfindel stretched to his full height and began to move about the stage, wonderingly examining himself and his surroundings. He sniffed the air and came to the front of the stage. Finrod found a light on his face, he narrowed his eyes and realized someone, doubtless Maglor, had arranged to have him lit up so that Glorfindel would be able to see him. They were less than two fathoms apart, their eyes met, Finrod smiled faintly, blushing to see Glorfindel's naked body respond to the sight of his lover. Glorfindel let the side of his mouth curve in a half-smile but did not hesitate in the motion of his dance. He discovered another sleeper, and woke her, and they danced joyfully, slowly waking others, until all six danced together.

  
 Finrod found his mind completely unable to attend to the rest of the pageant after Glorfindel had left the stage, but felt the intentness of the audience and decided it must be good music. Maglor could hardly blame him for not being able to concentrate after publicly embarrassing him like that. He sighed, he and Glorfindel had only met for the first time that morning, the day seemed endless, the pageant seemed endless, his only wish, the burning desire in his heart, was to be with his beloved, away from these endless crowds. 

  
 Finally the pageant ended, the audience roared its approval, stamping and clapping. Finrod was impressed, it must have been very good, he was almost sorry to have paid so little attention. The actors were coming back on stage to receive the applause, and there was Glorfindel, still naked, smiling at the crowd, then, with burning eyes, at Finrod. 

  
 Finrod, seeming in a dream, looking at Glorfindel as though down a long tunnel, stood up. Fingolfin put a hand on his arm but he shrugged it off. He strode across the grass, vaulted up onto the stage and stood in front of Glorfindel. He was surprised that Glorfindel's eyes were almost on a level with his; he thought of him as so very tall, but in truth there was only a couple of fingers-breadth between their heights. They gazed into each others eyes, forgetful of all around them.

 Finrod was suddenly overwhelmed with desire, he leaned forwards and scooped Glorfindel into his arms and carried him offstage into the wings. The crowd cheered even more loudly, but Finrod was oblivious. He pressed Glorfindel against the stage wall and kissed him passionately; finding he had taken both of Glorfindel's hands in his own he held them together above his head, and paused, looking into his eyes. There was a silence. Then Glorfindel smiled 'I consent. ' he said 'I will be your plaything.' 

  
 Finrod opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He could not believe what he was doing but he could not stop himself. 'You know that I have never...'

 Glorfindel nodded 'You are still a virgin. I know. It will be an honour. Even here.' he smiled again 'Especially here...'  
 Finrod's body knew what was expected of it; the bliss when he entered Glorfindel seemed to stop his heart, they gazed at each other, Glorfindel pinned naked against the wall, Finrod still in all his finery, moving steadily, then with increasing urgency, until Glorfindel gasped and his mouth clung to Finrod's, and the waves of ecstatic love filled their minds and bodies.

   
 Finrod released Glorfindel, and stood in front of him, looking at him in a kind of horror. 'What am I doing ? After all that I have said to reassure you... You must think my words mean nothing. You must doubt that I even love you now.'

 Glorfindel smiled slowly and wrapped his arms around Finrod 'My poor Finrod, I nearly leaped off the stage when I saw you sitting there, I nearly did this to you, right out there in front of everyone. If you had not come for me I would have been disappointed. ' He kissed Finrod again, and Finrod found his mind clearing

 'Truly ? You are not angry with me ?'

 Glorfindel laughed softly 'Do I seem angry ? or do I seem happy ?'   
Finrod nodded 'It is all so strange and new, I am lost, I do not know what I am doing. I do not know what will happen next...' 

  
 Glorfindel grinned 'Now that you have, if I may say so, lost your virginity in such a spectacular fashion, nobody knows what you will do next.' He looked around, the stage was cleared, the actors all celebrating behind the scenes, the amphitheatre emptying fast. 'But first a drink, and I may put some clothes on ' he looked at Finrod, smiling from the corners of his eyes 'With your permission my lord ?' 


	16. The Hammock of Finrod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel struggles with the changes in his life.

  
  
The Hammock of Finrod

 

  
   Glorfindel watched the sunlight glowing through the dancing leaves of the birch trees; they lay entwined on the silver hammock, Finrod's pale gold hair spilling across Glorfindel's chest, rising and falling as they caught their breath.

  The roar of the cheering crowds of excited Elves, the cloud of thrown flowers, the close press of thousands of bodies, it had reminded them both, at an unspoken level, of their times in battle, and even though the faces had been joyous and welcoming, it had been troubling merely to cross the short distance from the Pavilion of Fingolfin. Fingolfin had granted them an escort of his guards, which had made Glorfindel sneer to himself, until he had led Finrod out into the bright sunlight and the storm of elven voices; the avenue between the large pavilions was a colourful sea of faces, Glorfindel had been stunned, Finrod had backed into him, and their hands had gripped each other as though in a turbulent river.

  
  Finrod stirred slowly in his arms, he leaned forward to kiss his head and noticed a flower tangled in the shining hair; he smiled and let it be, it was all the decoration Finrod needed.    

 His heart seemed to overflow with joy, he had been content when he had arrived at Mereth Aderthad, but now, with his heart's desire warm and breathing in his arms, he was almost bewildered by the ecstasy leading the charge of emotions which surged through his tingling body. A deep happiness seemed to surround them, rising like a great tide, but in the depths the hint of the shadow of loss; that such joy bore a risk of great pain, that one day they might be separated. His pride of possession made him clench his teeth, he crushed Finrod against himself, as though he would enfold him, consume him, absorb him altogether.

  Finrod laughed softly and licked the golden brown skin  
'Poor Glorfindel; unable to say 'I love you', you are forced to break my bones '

  
  Glorfindel looked down at Finrod, anxious for a moment, but the smooth skin of his face was stretched into a drowsy smile, his eyelids lowered, the dark lashes casting faint shadows on the pale golden skin of his cheek. Glorfindel sighed happily and stroked the soft flesh, feeling the bones of cheek and jaw solid under his fingers, his hand slowly moving down to enclose the throat of Finrod

  
  'You are mine' he said hoarsely 'I can never let you go.'

  
  Finrod smiled, Glorfindel felt the muscles moving against his chest 'You may attempt to leave me, but I am a good scout, I shall pursue you into the uttermost East, should you flee. '

  Glorfindel laughed 'Would you really leave all this to follow me ?' he gestured around at the private garden in the midst of the rows of tents, at the couches and statues and rich tapestries.  
  Finrod raised his head and glanced at the familiar belongings, many of them had been gifts from members of his enormous family, his sister had given him the statues  
 

  'No, I would bring the statues, They were a gift from Galadriel, and I treasure them. ' he paused and looked at the statues, then peered narrowly at Glorfindel.

  
  'What is it ? What troubles you Finrod ?' said Glorfindel, relishing merely speaking the name of his love.

  
  'I... it is not trouble, but it seems to me that you resemble the statues, or perhaps they resemble you ? Do you know the artist ?'

  
  Glorfindel blushed, and Finrod laughed delightedly 'Tell me !' he cried

  
  Glorfindel closed his eyes 'The art school asked me to pose for them. I did not mind. But they kept my goblet full of fine wine, they worked in silence, and in boredom I drank heavily. They drew me while I slept, and though they did nothing to disturb me, the thought that I was so... so abandoned...'

  
  Finrod looked at him in astonishment 'There are paintings of you ? I did not know. I have seen none !'

  
  Glorfindel blushed again 'No, all the artists painted me asleep, and unclothed. They were bought by collectors and not shown at exhibitions attended by people...'

  
  'People like me ?' Finrod finished for him gently. His eyes warmed into a smile, he moved his shoulders slightly and Glorfindel felt again the great surging thrill of ownership of his heart's desire; Finrod, fairest of the House of Finwë, and King of West Beleriand, lay naked and in chains in the arms of Glorfindel the soldier, adoring him, and eager to please.

  
  To Glorfindel's surprise Finrod looked away and called for Gildor, who appeared at the pearl curtain

  
  'Gildor, it seems there are some paintings of Glorfindel that I have never seen. Please find as many as you can, and discover if any are for sale. '

  
  Gildor bowed and melted back into the pavilion, Glorfindel watched the curtain ripple slowly into stillness.

  
  'But why do you wish for images of me when I am here in person ?'

  
  Finrod smiled 'Do you not wish for an image of me ?'

  Glorfindel looked at him in astonished delight, the idea had not yet occurred to him 'An image of you ! Oh, I do, I shall ask my favourite artist, she will be delighted to paint you !'

  
  'So, you do understand ! I am blinded by your beauty, I would see you as others have seen you, and I would...' he paused, a bee had alighted on Glorfindel's chest, it took a few slow steps forward, its antennae twitching back and forth, its multi-faceted eyes seeming to consider them thoughtfully for a moment, as Glorfindel held his breath. The transparent wings trembled, and with Elven speed vanished into a blur of motion, the bee lifted off and was gone.

  
  'There is a flower in your hair still, I could not remove it, it looked so right.'

  
  Finrod smiled at him 'I think the bee was wondering if we were flowers, with our yellow hair... Yours in particular, your hair is so golden it is almost gaudy. Almost...' he ended softly. Glorfindel leaned forwards to kiss him, and they flowed together into the indissoluble alloy of Elven love, shining like fallen petals of the Trees.

  
  Gildor interrupted them 'My lord, dispatches from Turgon, orders for Glorfindel.'

  
  Glorfindel tried to sit up, frowning 'Has something happened ? Surely we are at Festival, there are no orders...'

  
  Gildor silently handed him the scroll. Glorfindel took it; it bore the seal of Turgon, his high commander, his king. He looked anxiously at Finrod, whose face was serenely expressionless; Glorfindel had a sudden vision of Finrod working at diplomacy, his face set in just such an expression, listening with the patience of a gardener to the raging of his turbulent relations. Finrod was looking at the scroll; Glorfindel braced himself and broke the decorated wax seal.

 

  "From Turgon son of Fingolfin to Glorfindel of the First Heavy Cavalry, greetings.  
You are hereby notified of a transfer of command from the First Heavy Cavalry of the House of Turgon to the army of our most beloved cousin the lord Finrod son of Finarfin, King of West Beleriand, these orders to be enacted forthwith and immediately.

  
May the Valar favour you ! "

  
 

  Glorfindel jerked upright, Finrod tumbled helplessly, curled around behind Glorfindel's back. He struggled to right himsel, set the hammock swaying violently, and began to laugh, but as his eyes caught the rage in those of Glorfindel, he fell silent, and still.

 The hammock swayed from side to side as they gazed at each other across the abyss between them. That morning they had floated easily across, overwhelmed by love and desire. Now the shadows of the world fell across them, and they searched each other's eyes, seeking the vital clue.

  
  Glorfindel's heart burned within him, the thought that his lover would also be his commanding officer was intolerable to him, he wanted to storm into the pavilion of Turgon and demand to have these orders retracted. But here was Finrod, gazing in anguish, guiltless of everything save being born. If he refused, Finrod would be hurt, yet how could he endure it, he would be a joke, a mascot, his very name would evoke laughter, it was his oldest fear, to be considered only as a pretty object, rather than as a person in his own right. He looked helplessly at Finrod, who pursed his lips briefly

  
  'My love, I would have some wine, but without spilling it. Would you consider leaving this hammock for now ?'

  
  'Wine, yes, we should drink wine...' Glorfindel looked down at the swaying hammock then slid carefully over the side, and in the same smooth motion lifted Finrod into his arms.  
Finrod looked up at him in surprise

  'You have done that before.'  
  'I have.' said Glorfindel, but made no other sign as he bore Finrod into the pavilion.

  They lounged on the green couch, with its legs of silvered branches shining in golden afternoon sunshine. Finrod watched the dust dancing in the pillars of light as Glorfindel poured the wine and held the goblet to Finrod's lips, then drank himself. Finrod looked thoughtfully at Glorfindel

  
  'As I understand it, you will not take orders from me since I am your lover ?'

  
  Glorfindel sighed, then looked intently at Finrod 'You are more beautiful than I, Finrod, you must know that there are those who see nothing beyond the face ?' He paused thoughtfully 'Or does your rank blind you to the difference in the way people treat each other because of their appearance ? You know that I loathe the idea of being seen as your plaything, though for you it is an amusing frolic to be chained up and caressed by the lovely Glorfindel '

  
  Finrod smiled to himself, there was a song called 'Lovely Glorfindel', and he had heard two versions, one with the kind of lyrics that could not be sung to parents...

  
  But Glorfindel was sitting upright, tense with embarrassment, he too had heard the song, and could not endure the mocking of Finrod.  
'You snigger at me even now ! I told you that we could not be together ! By the void, I shall leave the Noldor altogether and go to Doriath' he paused and groaned 'No, even they are your kin, I shall ford the seven streams and join the wild wood elves, and be recognised as my own person !'

  
  There was a brief silence, Finrod seemed to quiver briefly in his arms, he suddenly became aware that he had not slackened his grip on Finrod in any way. Finrod looked into his eyes with simple adoration

  
  'I beg you to take me with you, wherever you travel.'

  
  Glorfindel, once more stunned into silence by the beauty of Finrod, and the completeness of his gift of love, abandoned the search for words and kissed Finrod. His heart seemed to be injured, pain stabbed through him, but vanished as morning mist in the golden warmth of the presence of Finrod, and the joyous passion within him. He had not imagined the scale of the changes his love would wreak upon him; the world shrank away like the withered shell of a rose, he cared nothing for the laughter of others, it seemed to him as remote and meaningless as birdsong, only the precious living presence of his beloved was real.

  He laughed at himself, he could not endure to lift his hands from the skin of Finrod, it was unimaginable that he could ever drag himself away. Or permit Finrod to leave his side. He lifted his head, Finrod slowly opened his eyes, he seemed blinded with desire, a soft sound came on a breath, Glorfindel knew that the truth was between them, a private thing, that no watcher could ever taste, let alone capture, and that the laughter of others would never touch them, simply because there was nothing, nothing between them at all, for the laughter to reach, for they were one.

  
  His customary arrogance had been transfigured by love, the shadow of fear of losing Finrod intensified the joy in his heart, the utter faith that Finrod had placed in him seemed a solid thing to Glorfindel, he believed in himself in a way that had been merely provisional until their meeting by the mountain pool. His confidence began to rest on certainty, and he touched Finrod with his strong, clever hands, already familiar with the shape and desires of Finrod's lithe, golden body, and when he took Finrod again, the cry of ecstasy uttered by Finrod in his moment of release brought an anxious Gildor to cast a patch of darkness on the curtain of pearl and silver. But Glorfindel's eyes soon returned to the glowing eyes of his lover, still trembling in his arms.

  
  Finrod spoke after their long rapturous silence 'We cannot part. But you, you will neither follow me, nor leave. Do you desire to remain a soldier all your life ?'

  
  Glorfindel looked at him in astonishment 'Naturally not, slaying anything is abhorrent to me ! But I will defend our people from the Enemy until either he is defeated or I perish in the attempt. '

  
  Finrod looked down 'My apologies, Glorfindel, do not think I underestimate your valour in any way. All agree that you are the finest athlete and the best soldier in all the armies of the elves.

But Turgon and I must help to order those armies, and to find the best places for our friends the soldiers. But I think I see a way in which we can resolve this puzzle. ' he smiled at Glorfindel. Glorfindel waited, then frowned impatiently at the smiling Finrod 

  
  'Speak, then, I beg you, tell me of your plan.'

  
  'You shall remain in the service of Turgon, but take up the post of military liaison between his high command and mine. I fear you will not relish the diplomatic aspects of this work, which will consist of watching my every move closely...' his voice tailed off suggestively.  

 Glorfindel stared at him for a moment, unsure whether he was in earnest or in jest, then finally understanding that both were true. He pulled Finrod close to himself and kissed all over his face, speechless with delight and joy. But doubts crept into his mind; he was being given a privileged, ceremonial position, he would still be a joke, another useless statue at the court of Finrod.

 Finrod felt the arguments squirming through Glorfindel, but could only lie helpless in Glorfindel's arms as the winds of contrary emotions battered them. Finally Glorfindel raised his head and moaned despairingly  
'But it is precisely that ornamental, ceremonial role that I most want to avoid.'

  
  Finrod frowned, and adopted a tone that Glorfindel had never heard from him before, cool, curt and commanding  
  'Hear my words, soldier, and heed them. We are at war, our Enemy is so much more powerful than we are that we cannot comprehend the scale of his might, nor guess at the extent of his corruption of our fellow soldiers. We cannot win, we cannot return, either to Valinor, or Cuiviénen. We shall therefore be spending the rest of our lives fortifying and defending the little kingdoms we shall build here, in pitiful mockery of the splendours of Valinor, or of Tirion. Eventually, one or both of us will be slain by the Enemy, for we are both soldiers, my love.

  
  But I cannot live without you now, I must have you with me, and I know that you share my feelings. But your fear is a fear from Valinor and we are no longer there, in the peaceful land of ritual, formality and festivity; we are here, this is Middle-Earth, we are at siege, you will be expected to attend my councils, and write full reports for Turgon, and advise us of his views, should the need arise. Furthermore, my realm is barely established, there will be many years of reconnaissance as sites are chosen, then I must oversee the building of fortifications, villages and towns; I shall be travelling through largely unknown countryside for years to come. I would have the best soldier in the army by my side, guarding me from the unknown dangers ahead. Will you come with me, Glorfindel, and serve the Elves, the High King, Turgon, and I, to defend our civilisation from destruction at the hands of the Enemy ?'

  
  Glorfindel blinked and bowed his head, his exhausted mind sagging under the weight of new and unexpected emotions. He felt as one pulling up a carrot from the ground who finds the roots wrapped around a vast chest of treasure, while around him gathered faceless foes, eager to sieze the plunder.

  He could not speak, he was overwhelmed that the exquisite lover he had found bathing in the woods was also a powerful king, a military commander and a seasoned leader. He shook his head, and felt Finrod's sharp inhalation of breath.

  
  'Oh Glorfindel ! I love you more than all of Arda combined, you know that I would leave it all for you ! Without hesitation. But if you would have me remain, then this is the task appointed to me, this is the work I have trained for, this is what I must do. How could I endure my own company if I retired to a palace and left everything to others ? You would not act in this way were my father a smith, and I trained at the anvil.'

  
  'Your uncle is a smith, the most famous smith of all.'

  
  'Indeed' said Finrod slowly 'But he was an execrable leader.'

 

 


	17. The Robes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel and Finrod get to know each other over breakfast.

  
  


The Robes

 

  Glorfindel lay still, hearing the boasting of a blackbird against the muted morning roar of Mereth Aderthad, the scent of warm mint drifted past him, and brought the memory of home vividly before him, he stretched and yawned, and finding himself alone in the large bed, sat up and opened his eyes.

  
  Finrod, seated in one of the low chairs, wrapped in a grape coloured bathrobe, a steaming goblet in one hand and a painting in the other, smiled joyfully at him. Glorfindel looked around at the richly decorated furnishings of the luxurious pavilion, then back at the painting in the hand of Finrod. He knew what it would be, it would be one of the paintings of himself, naked and asleep, and here he was, just as his sarcastic first lover had foreseen, a toy of one of the Noldor princes, naked and barely emerged from sleep. He cursed wordlessly and sprang to his feet.

 Finrod rose anxiously to face him  
'What ails you, my love ? Why do you look at me so ?'

  
  Glorfindel clenched his fists, snarling silently, then saw the depth of fear and love in Finrod's eyes. He took a deep shuddering breath, and forced his muscles to unclench. Finrod looked down at the painting in his hand and closed his eyes.  
 

  'You know what I fear' said Glorfindel 'I have awakened into my nightmare.'

  
He could see Finrod's jaw become firmer as his teeth clenched, but Finrod looked kindly at him  
  'Have you seen this painting yet ?' he asked softly.

  Glorfindel shrugged, he had seen several, but there was no accounting for artists... Finrod placed his goblet carefully on the low table and held the painting up for Glorfindel to see.    

  Glorfindel winced and turned away, but then breathed deeply and turned back. The painting had been done from life, from his own life, of himself asleep, an empty goblet loose in one hand, his other draped over the side of the couch on which he sprawled. But the artist had been one of the finest in Tirion, indeed, in Valinor, for only the Noldor took seriously the craft of the representation of images, only the Noldor cared for art. Glorfindel found himself truly seeing the painting, not as an insulting leer at himself, but as a skillful work of art, capturing a moment; the young Elf, careless and asleep, made more beautiful by the craft of the artist. He found himself blushing, and with difficulty looked up into the eyes of Finrod

  
  'It is very good.' he said finally 'Although I think that the artist has flattered me too much.'

  Finrod's eyes widened briefly, he shook his head   
'You really do not know how beautiful you are, how could you ? That privilege is reserved for the rest of us, who adore you.'

  
  Glorfindel grimaced, his eyes tightly closed, 'Adore !' he spat the word in fury. 'How will that help me in the meetings of your council ? How would you like it ?' he stopped, astonished at his words, astonished at himself, for Finrod was more beautiful even than himself, and Glorfindel had seen many paintings of Finrod, though none like this.  

  Understanding began to grow within him, that not only did Finrod have his own blinding beauty to contend with, but also the fact of his birth; Finrod must constantly have feared that he, in himself, was nothing, a mere playing-piece on the board of the scheming Fëanorians.

  For the first time in his life, Glorfindel began to wonder if those who spoke of wordless communication, like his father, spoke of something more significant than a mere facility with the reading of posture and gesture. He could almost perceive the flavour of the thought of Finrod; more than a mood or an emotion, a balance of judgements, perhaps even a craft of evaluation of the judgements of himself and others. Glorfindel felt ignorant and foolish, his eyelids lowered and his shoulders sagged. Finrod instantly dropped the painting onto his chair and wrapped both arms around Glorfindel.

  
  The touch of the warm skin of Finrod's chest seemed to awaken Glorfindel, for the first time that morning he felt alive, truly real, fully himself. He sighed deeply and kissed the coral lips of Finrod, finding the hindrance of the robe and throwing it to the floor. He felt Finrod smile and lifted his head for a moment. Finrod's grey-blue eyes smiled happily into his

  
  'Turgon has sent you a gift.' he said. Glorfindel frowned, Finrod stretched out an arm and lifted a package wrapped in fine cloth from the table. Still smiling, he placed it in the gap between their chests. Glorfindel looked down at the smooth, undyed fabric, it gave no hint of its contents, though from the weight and softness of the parcel, Glorfindel expected a garment. Reluctantly he lifted one hand and unfolded the wrapping. He was obliged to use both hands to shake out the long formal robe of Noldor blue, bearing the badge of Turgon and with many garnets sewn into the silver embroidery of the hems.

 There was a pause, then Finrod grinned at him 'I expect that Turgon envisaged you appearing at my council in your armour. Will you let me see you in it, now ?'

  
  Glorfindel, already feeling the stupefying effects of arousal, looked from Finrod to the robe, and smiled to himself. He had awoken naked, a mere soldier, in the bed of a prince who had sipped his morning infusion in a fancy robe, gloating over a picture of him. Now he would be the one in the fancy robe... He pulled it over his shoulders and fastened it, then straightened his back and looked seriously at Finrod.   
  Finrod was silent for a moment, then glanced at the curtain of pearls 'I think ' he said hoarsely, then cleared his throat. Glorfindel was struck by a mighty wave of desire for him, it took him great effort to remain still as Finrod spoke again, this time clearly 'I think you should ask for the opinion of Gildor. '

  Glorfindel wished wildly that there was no Gildor, no House of Finwë, no Mereth Aderthad, that it would all simply vanish and leave him alone with Finrod. With the vividness of lightning it came to him that not only did Finrod feel the same way, but that he could perceive the wish of Glorfindel's heart, not only in this moment, but at many other times. Glorfindel laughed at himself, his wishes, being so simple, were simple to read. Finrod's eyes shone merrily at him, he found himself grinning, and turned towards the curtain, to show his new robe to the valet waiting in the other room.

 

  Gildor was sitting by the closed canvas doors, laced against the wind and weather. He was eating a pie, and obviously enjoying it. Glorfindel found his mouth watering, as Gildor glanced up at him, then blinked at the formal robe and leaped to his feet. He swiftly dropped the half-eaten pie on a platter and wiped his mouth and hands.

  
  'Sir, how may I be of service ?' Glorfindel was surprised and gratified at the response of Gildor, and then dismayed by his own pitiful pleasure. He had been garnished like an elaborate dish for the pleasure of the prince. He recoiled slightly, and saw the look of concern in the eyes of Gildor.

  Glorfindel forced himself to smile  
'Greetings Gildor, I hope you slept well ?' Gildor nodded, Glorfindel continued 'May I ask what you were eating ? It smells delicious, I hope there are more ?'

  
  Gildor raised the silver lid of another platter, an assortment of pies, pastries and small bread rolls let out an appetising steam 'Here is your breakfast sir, I was awaiting your call. The ones with poppy seeds contain asparagus and mushroom, the others are artichoke hearts with celery and hazlenuts.' he paused and looked at Glorfindel's robe 'The Lord Turgon will be pleased that the robe fits you so well. May I welcome you in your new role, and say how fitting it is. The wisdom of Finrod grows, and grows more inspiring, constantly.'

  
 Glorfindel swallowed, the aroma and the compliments were too much. Gildor lifted the tray, which also contained two tall silver flagons, and stepped towards Glorfindel 'May I advise you, sir, that there is to be a formal meeting of the council of Finrod later this morning, in this very room ?'

  
  Glorfindel, startled and apprehensive, took a step backwards, the pearls of the curtain rattled on his shoulders, he backed into the bedchamber and turned to Finrod, who had not moved since Glorfindel had turned away. Glorfindel gazed at him, Finrod's beauty seemed to fill the pavilion; or the world, the golden skin shone in the morning light, the smooth pale gold hair hung across the muscles of his chest, the grey-blue eyes seemed to grow larger, to fill the whole of Finrod's face, the whole of Glorfindel's mind. He was barely aware of Gildor laying the breakfast dishes on the low table by the wide entrance through which small insects and the song of birds came. The noise of the crowd seemed softer; Glorfindel smiled to himself, doubtless everyone else was also dining, and many would have had as little sleep as he had. He yawned, smiled at Gildor as he bowed and left, then slowly, his eyes fixed on those of Finrod, began to unfasten the robe.

  Finrod remained still, as Glorfindel laid the robe carefully on a chair, then took one of the seed covered pastries and bit into it. He stepped forwards and pulled Finrod against himself and looked thoughtfully into his eyes as the freshness of the asparagus delighted him. He ate the whole pastry in silence, while Finrod stood still in his arm, almost as one waiting.  

  Glorfindel sighed as he dabbed a cloth across his lips 'Oh my love, I was so hungry that my appetite overwhelmed even my desire for you. Can you imagine ?'

 Glorfindel spoke light-heartedly, but Finrod looked intently at him and replied quietly

 'No.'

  
  Glorfindel blinked at him, Gildor was right; there was something constantly surprising about Finrod, perhaps merely his intensity, inherited from Finwë, no doubt, but manifesting in different ways in each of the family; and for Glorfindel, now watching so closely, in different ways in each moment of Finrod's life. He sighed, the complexity of his own new emotions already filled his mind, how could he hope to fathom those of this beautiful stranger...

  But his hunger was barely dented by the pie, he sat down, with Finrod still in one arm, and took another pastry. It was so delicious that he offered a mouthful to Finrod, who bit into it, his eyes still on Glorfindel's. They watched each other as they ate, Glorfindel feeding Finrod like an infant, though Finrod was not bound in any way.

  The air between them seemed to focus and solidify, a still, heavy, centre, from which a growth of crystal silence seemed to spread. At the heart of the stillness, the molten core, the heat of their desire burned in them, and filled them with longing and anticipation.  

  Glorfindel picked up his as yet untasted goblet, from which the steam had ceased to rise, and sipped at the now cooled infusion. It was as he had suspected, the recipe, which he had never learned, was his mother's. They sold dried preparations of those herbs, for travellers. But this was as fresh as the asparagus, Finrod drank the same infusion at breakfast that he himself had had as a child.   
Finrod smiled understandingly, and Glorfindel found his shoulders loosening, he had been fraught with tension, he still was, and having Finrod under his hands made even more of his muscles clench. His mind seemed to flicker like a cut bowstring, as he recalled the previous morning, when he had awoken alone in his small tent, taken his daily run, and joined friends for a simple breakfast of bread and fruit. To his horror he realised that this was the second morning he had spent with Finrod; they had met at sunrise, and still clung together, in the broad light of the following day. He looked up and saw the blue of the sky through the gap in the roof, and smiled, then looked again at Finrod

  'It is so difficult to grasp what has happened to us, I know that it is love, but it is as new to me as it is to you, I am both bewildered and firmly convinced... I know that I love you and that you love me, but these strong emotions are new to me, I can barely comprehend them, I cannot describe them to you. But I know that you must feel something as strongly as I do, I can see it, and feel it when I touch you. This very knowledge seems to increase the strength of my own emotions, is it truly the same with you ?'

  
  Finrod's eyes seemed to fill with tears, though he shed none 'Strong emotions.' he said, his voice almost level but for the evident fact that he himself was restraining an outburst of the expression of just such feelings. 'You spoke earlier of your nightmare.'   
  Glorfindel inhaled sharply, then paused to think, looking first at Finrod, then out at the silver birches, their white trunks almost glowing in the bright sunshine, the little leaves green and rustling in a fluttering cloud above.

'My nightmare...' he sighed, and looked again at Finrod, and again the pain of the beauty of Finrod struck at his heart. He paused to kiss him softly. 'My nightmare is there in that painting; to forget myself, to be nothing, merely an image, to do nothing, to...' he stopped, Finrod's expression had changed, he felt suddenly larger and heavier in Glorfindel's arms as his muscles tensed. Glorfindel could feel the effort that Finrod put into unclenching himself.

  
  In a tone darkened with cold fury, Finrod spoke  
  'Do you think that I do not understand you ? Do you think that I do not wonder if some of those who follow me do so not because they value my judgment, but because their eyes have been blinded by my yellow hair ? You are the first whom I have touched, but do you suppose that none have ever attempted to seduce me before ? I know your fear, Glorfindel, for in a way I fear it too. The schemes of my family, the plotting of our Enemy, in all this, how can someone as young and untested as I hope to follow the long plans of the Fëanorians ?

  I do not think that either of us plays in this game, we are merely the pieces, my love, moved by the hands of others. We both wish to escape from my family, but here is everyone we care for. ' he stopped for a moment 'Not all, alas, but still.

 We can leave here, if you wish, we can cross mountains until our very words become strange in the ears of those we meet, and we can begin again, as who we are together.'

  
  Glorfindel looked silently at him, above the ocean of joy and love he felt for Finrod, a part of him marvelled that Finrod could speak so well in such circumstances and then he laughed aloud  
  'I was wondering at you, and how you could be so eloquent even when moved by strong emotion. But as you said, you were trained to speak clearly and calmly when you are agitated. I suppose that that is diplomacy ?'

  
  Finrod laughed dryly 'Alas, no, diplomacy is speaking clearly and calmly when the person you represent is agitated. When it is you yourself who are agitated, then it is politics.'

 

 


	18. Gildor Inglorion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arranging the expedition

Gildor Inglorion.-

  Gildor entered the crowded pavillion and the assembled elves fell silent. He unrolled a large map and pinned it to the wall behind him then turned to face the others.   
'Firstly, thank you all for coming today, Finrod will be honoured to see so many celebrated builders and architects here. I know you were hoping for news of the site of his capital, but there has been no decision on that issue so far. ' There were quiet groans. The builders of Tirion and Alqualonde were here, eager for new projects. Gildor smiled to himself, they were not going to be pleased with his news. 

  
  'He would like a small villa, here ' he pointed to the mouth of the River Sirion on the map, 'Hidden in the forest of Arvernien, but with a sea view from the upstairs balcony. There are only two specifications for the villa, balconies all around on both floors, and a pool inside the villa. With a roof, large enough to swim in.' 

  
 There was a silence, then someone said 'A villa. One villa...' Gildor nodded. A young builder raised a hand, Gildor pointed at him, he said

 'But the defences... watchtowers...'

 Gildor nodded again 'Yes, those things will be commissioned in due course, but the locations have yet to be determined. Indeed, the primary purpose of this expedition will be the establishment of a fortified supply chain down the length of the River Narog. From what we know so far, the land beyond the confluence with the Sirion is marshy and unsuitable for fortification. ' 

  
 A voice interrupted him 'Hence Arvernien.' Gildor nodded 'Quite so. There will be a village in Arvernien, a small port, and with all the forts to build on the route, there will be enough to keep everyone busy. There will be a tower on the coast' he pointed to the headland between Brithombar and Eglarest 'Here, but nothing will be decided until he has seen the site himself. Does anyone have any questions regarding the villa, which is the immediate concern ?' 

  
 There was another silence, then the most famous water-engineer, who had build prize-winning fountains, said quietly 'Just a pool ? For swimming in ? No fountains at all ?' A ripple of laughter crossed the room.  
 Gildor sighed 'My friends, you know King Finrod, he prefers the peaceful life, he is a musician at heart. He does not like ostentatious display, nor does he like causing difficulties for people. He would have it simple to make life easier for you. But you are artists; and as his steward I feel empowered to request that you make his "simple villa" as beautiful as you know how, as artistically as you know how, and with as many fountains as you think necessary.

 Which reminds me, there is word that these hills' he pointed to the range midway down the Narog 'Contain veins of marble, which we can ship downriver to Arvernien for the port and the villa. The cliffs on the coast are good enough rock for building the village. Finally, given, effectively, unlimited numbers of workers, how quickly can the villa be built ?'   
The serious-minded architects and builders looked at each other, calculating; unlimited labour, but marble to be quarried... Finally one ventured 'Two months ?' 

  
 Gildor examined their faces 'Do any of you believe that this could be done more swiftly than that ?' There was much shaking of heads

 'Not if you want art.' said another.

 Gildor pursed his lips 'Very well; the advance party leaves in the morning, they will find and clear the site, and the rest of us will follow in a day or so. The idea is that Finrod will travel slowly, inspecting fortification sites en route, and that the villa will be finished by the time they arrive. Can this be done ?' 

   
 The architect stood up and walked over to the map 'It all depends how quickly Finrod moves. If he travels five leagues a day he could arrive in a month. But if he pauses for a few days in each place, or wanders around, then we can have it all ready for him.'

 Gildor nodded 'He will not be hurrying. There will be several thousand elves following; more than twenty thousand volunteered, but he has refused most of them, just his own people for Arvernien and the forts, more will be welcome later, doubtless. So, there will be slow progress downstream, with much 'wandering about' as he establishes his realm. '

  
 A younger architect raised his hand 'But sir, what about Glorfindel ?'

 Gildor raised his eyebrows 'Well ?' he said. The architect looked around but every face was carefully expressionless. The architect felt his courage ebb away 'Um... I... Will he be joining the expedition ?' he asked feebly.

 Gildor suppressed a smile 'Yes. Glorfindel will be joining the expedition. Finrod is building the villa to please him. As indeed you would expect from a newly-wed. '


	19. The Council of Finrod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel attends his first council meeting.

The Council of Finrod

 

  
   
   Glorfindel struggled to stand still as Gildor carefully brushed his hair, the long gold waves had a tendency to curl into knotted ringlets, and Glorfindel paid little heed to grooming. But the skillful fingers of Gildor teased out the tangles and burnished the twisted strands into a sheet of shining gold. Finrod watched from the bath, still as the statues of Oromë, his face filled by his large light eyes. Glorfindel found his own gaze held by them, he could feel that Finrod spoke to him with those serious grey eyes, but the message eluded him. 

  
   Gildor put down the hairbrush and picked up the long lavish robe of Turgon. He shook it out and slipped one of Glorfindel's arms into a wide sleeve. As Glorfindel eased his shoulders into the smooth soft fabric and Gildor pulled the front straight, the message of Finrod became clear to Glorfindel; this robe was not a garment, this robe was armour. The ceremonial of dressing, the ritual of grooming, these were the same vital preparations that he himself made as a soldier, preparing for battle; examining each piece of kit, each weapon, cleaning and polishing, oiling blade and buckle, filling quivers, checking the fletching and number of arrows, every step was essential, for an unprepared soldier was more likely to kill himself and his fellows by his folly than to pose a threat to the enemy. Here in the serene elegance of the pavilion of Finrod, the armour and the battlefield ahead were very different, but the ritual, and its purpose, were the same. Glorfindel breathed deeply and nodded once at Finrod, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. 

  
  He had not realized how tense Finrod had been until he saw his muscles unclench. Finrod leaned back against the side of the silver bath, sighing quietly, his eyelids lowering slightly, a faint smile flickering across his face. Glorfindel smiled at him over the head of Gildor, who was bending over the garnet fastenings of the robe.  The face of Finrod seemed to ignite, a flush of passion, of love, coloured the pale gold cheeks and darkened the pale grey-blue eyes. Glorfindel felt his own body respond, from the expression on the face of Finrod he knew that his own face had displayed his feelings. They exchanged the wistful smile of passengers on passing ships, then Finrod breathed in heavily and spoke

  
   'My brother Orodreth will be attending the Council. I have asked that he arrive in advance of the time, in order that I may consult with him in private. I am asking that you leave my pavilion for a short while, not in order that I may act without you, but because my brother is shy, and will be unable to speak freely in your presence. In truth, in order that Orodreth be given the opportunity to speak without reticence, about you, for I would hear his concerns.'  
  Glorfindel pursed his lips and nodded 'I understand. There is something that I must do, in any case.' 

  
  Gildor fastened the last of the garnet clasps, pulled the front of the deep blue robe straight and looked up at Glorfindel with a smile  
  'You look' he paused and frowned 'you look like a king, sir.'  
   Glorfindel looked at Finrod, who was smiling with narrowed eyes 'He does. He looks more like a king than any of us. I think he is more... more wholesome than any of the House of Finwë,' he thought for a moment 'Excepting only my sister.'  
  Gildor smiled 'If the lady Galadriel ever declared a wish to lead our people, an army of elves would beg her to let them die for her.'  
   Finrod smiled 'Including myself !' he said with a laugh 'Alas, as the eldest, the task has fallen to me. But, Gildor, have the crowds departed ?'  
 Gildor shook his head 'No, sire, they are quieter now, but something seems to have gotten into them, into the whole festival, there is a fever in the air, as though your love were a song, haunting all who hear it.'

  
  The eyes of Finrod and Glorfindel were fixed upon each other. Gildor stepped back, as one who would not stand between two leopards, snarling silently as they circled each other. But instead of the furious intent of destruction, here was a desire that ignited the very air, Gildor found his own body responding, and his breathing disturbed the silence. 

  
   Finrod smiled 'That being so, Glorfindel, you will need guards, if only to make it possible for you to walk.'  
  Glorfindel frowned, then looked at Gildor 'Do you find me presentable? May I leave ?'  
  Gildor smiled 'Sir, you look presentable whatever you wear, or do not wear. But sir, I urge you to look through the gap in the doors before you attempt to leave, you do not seem to appreciate how excited people are by your, ah, romance with my lord Finrod. There were small crowds here before you came, and I know that people followed you yourself already. The two of you together, why, even I, who know Finrod so well, am moved to see you so in love, it is heartening, sir, it is like being inside a song, or... or a dream.' Gildor blushed and looked down.

  
 Glorfindel turned to Finrod, consternation, and the elaborate robe, made him seem old and pompous, Finrod laughed   
  'Oh Glorfindel, you look truly the part of courtier. You must remember that expression and use it at the council, it is perfect.'  
   Glorfindel frowned, blushing 'You mock me, I foresaw this.'  
   The face of Finrod became serious 'No, my love, not you; I laugh at the ritual, the ceremony, the endless empty words that must be uttered and heard. I mock myself.'  
   Glorfindel thought of his armour 'Yet is there not some value in the ritual of preparation ? The ceremony of robing ?'

  
   Finrod put his hands behind his head and looked up at the pavilion roof 'Perhaps, for some people, a habit is necessary for peace of mind, but I doubt that any particular ritual could affect their thoughts or deeds. You are thinking of armour, I surmise, but there is a difference. The armour is necessary, the careful preparation of a soldier's kit is essential to survival. But no part of the deliberations of the council is affected in any way by what we wear. It is the difference between a cook who carefully prepares the kitchen, the fire, the utensils and the ingredients, all necessary stages in the task of cooking, and a cook who spends hours selecting and arranging their costume, hairstyle, and jewellery, all the time fretting that some other cook will be wearing more gems, rather than thinking of the food itself.'  
  Glorfindel nodded slowly 'And yet...I do now feel ready to face your council, now that Gildor has arrayed me thus.'  
   Finrod shook his head 'It is your first council meeting. You feel encouraged and reassured by the attention. I myself forget that Gildor is there while I am being dressed, I use the time to plan my strategy, to bring to mind the words and wishes of the other councillors, and anticipate their responses. But I would have these thoughts were I to attend the council naked and unbathed, for they are a part of the task, and any councillor who does not also prepare their mind in this way would soon be replaced by someone competent. The robes are irrelevant.'

  
  Glorfindel looked at Gildor, whose face was full of approval and pride, something almost parental in his attitude to Finrod amused Glorfindel. He felt at ease in the pavilion for the first time, already he felt at home with these strangers, who knew each other so well that words were barely needed.  
 'Thank you Gildor. I accept your judgement, if you could find some people to help me to get through the crowds, I would be most grateful.' 

  
   Gildor bowed and left the room. Glorfindel turned to Finrod who held up his hands   
   'Stay back, the robe may be irrelevant, but Turgon intended you to wear it, and if you come closer I will drag you into the bath with me, and ruin Gildor's careful preparation.'  
   Glorfindel stepped back swiftly, and sat down, but Gildor returned almost immediately   
   'Sire' he said to Finrod 'A guard of eight is ready to attend Glorfindel, and the prince Orodreth awaits your pleasure.'  
   Finrod smiled 'Thankyou Gildor, please ask Orodreth to come in at once.' Gildor left and Glorfindel moved towards Finrod  
 'I will kiss you again before I leave.' he said decidedly.  
  Finrod smiled 'I would have begged it of you, my love.' 

  
  Glorfindel held his hair back and stooped over the bath, as Finrod lifted his chin and offered his mouth to Glorfindel. They kissed tenderly, Glorfindel found his heart racing as his body responded to the nearness of his beloved. His hands itched and clenched; restraining himself from laying them on the naked flesh beneath him made his breathing difficult. He heard the pearl curtain rattling behind him but he could not tear his lips from those of Finrod. He felt, rather than heard the small whimper that Finrod gave, and sighed. Already they understood each other; Finrod would do anything for him, it was for him to withdraw, or to take Finrod in front of his brother, and ruin the robe, the council meeting, everything...

  
  He sighed, stood up and turned to face Orodreth.  
  Orodreth stood blushing in the doorway, strands of pearls scattered across his shoulders, he looked mortified. Glorfindel put a hand to his chest and bowed formally.   
   'Welcome to the pavilion of Finrod, sire, please excuse my abrupt departure, but I shall see you again at the meeting of the council.'  
   Orodreth nodded and brushed the pearls from his shoulders 'I... thank you Glorfindel. May I also welcome you here, and tell you how glad you have made me, and how proud. Finrod deserves the best, and that is you, without any doubt.'  
   Glorfindel, too astonished at the eloquent words of the normally silent Orodreth to grasp his meaning, bowed again and hurried out of the room. 

  
  Gildor awaited him by the entrance 'Have no fear, sir, these are not enemies. The guard is to help you move, not to protect you. Without them, I fear you would never reach the next pavilion, much less your own tent.'  
   Glorfindel smiled at him 'Thankyou Gildor, I shall return as swiftly as the crowd permits.'  
   The crowd cheered enthusiastically as Glorfindel emerged, on either side of him the guards formed into lines, and the soldiers at the front held their two shields close together, to enable them to part the crowd. People struggled to move aside as the flowers began to fill the air. Glorfindel found himself holding his hands above his head, until the guards on either side raised their shields.

  
  His eyes caught those of one of the guards 'But this is madness!' he shouted.  
  The guard smiled back 'I think the wine may be affecting them... But they have behaved this way with Finrod, and with others; have no fear sir, we shall protect you, and besides, they do not wish to hurt you, these are the gestures of love, sir, not hatred.'

  
  The crowd had thinned, though a few youngsters still ran and skipped alongside them, as they reached the small plain tent of Glorfindel, in the neat rows of tents of the soldiers of Turgon. Glorfindel stepped inside the small, hot tent, fastened the flaps wide open, and unceremoniously tipped the contents of his kitbag onto his narrow bed. He turned things over as he sorted through them, and finally found the bag of gemstones his mother had given him at their parting. He had not glanced at them since that first camp, on the first night of their march away from Tirion.  
  But one gem had stayed in his mind, an opal of great size, polished into the shape of a teardrop, its nacreous hue deepened by a fractured rainbow of colour. He poured the gems onto the bedcover and picked out the opal; it was as lovely as his memory had suggested, the perfect gift for one as fair and complex as his precious Finrod. In a small silver box that his sister had given him, he found a worthy chain to hang the opal from, and smiled to himself, his mind filled with the image of Finrod, wearing nothing but the opal...

 He stuffed his belongings back into the kitbag and glanced at the door. He hesitated, should he bring his kit with him ? Would that be presumptuous ? He thought of Finrod, swearing to follow him into the uttermost East. He smiled to himself, swung the kitbag onto his shoulder and looked around the tent. There was nothing else in it but the washstand, and a plain hard chair. He smiled at the narrow bed, he had not even laid his head on the pillow, for he had met Finrod on the morning of the first night of Mereth Aderthad, and he knew that he would never now return to this small tent. He braced himself with a sigh, and stepped out between the guards.  
   
 There was a group of formally-robed Elves waiting with Gildor outside the pavilion of Finrod. Glorfindel was relieved to see that the crowd had thinned somewhat. The guard, who had siezed his kitbag from him and insisted on carrying it for him, spoke softly

  
   'Gildor will tell you what to do, sir, he arranges these matters for my lord Finrod.'  
   Glorfindel nodded 'I am beginning to see that. Thank you for everything.'  
  'Our pleasure sir, it is always a treat to be cheered, even if you are only escort for the hero of the hour.'  
   Glorfindel laughed 'The hero of the hour... I hope he will not so soon tire of me !'   
   The guard looked at him in surprise 'Oh no, sir, Finrod has never been like this before, no, it is the crowd who are fickle. Finrod is as constant as the stars, you may be sure of that, sir.'  
   Glorfindel felt his chest swell with pride, his throat seemed to clench his mouth into silence, he could barely smile at the guard as Gildor approached them. 

  
   'My lord Glorfindel, he asks that you enter at once. I will look after your possessions for you.' He took the kitbag from the guard and ushered Glorfindel past the group of councillors, one of whom greeted Glorfindel warmly. It was Merilhen, a fellow athlete, though not one he knew well.   
  'Merilhen, many years have passed since last we raced together ! What brings you to the council of Finrod ?'  
  Merilhen, named for the grey eyes which were so pale that they seemed almost white, and took on the colour of their surroundings with the milky shimmer of a pearl, smiled knowingly at Glorfindel  
  'I would say that my task here was the same as your own, but I think you have many duties that I will not be expected to carry out...' he laughed at the expression on Glorfindel's face 'I too am a military liaison, for the lord Maedhros.'  
  Glorfindel felt an enormous sense of relief, if someone like Merilhen could hold this post unremarked, there was no need for concern. All knew that he had been appointed at the wish of Finrod, yet he would at least not only be competent in the role, but, perhaps more importantly, he would be considered so by the other councillors. He sighed with relief  
  'I am more pleased to see you than I can say' he said to the surprised Merilhen, 'I hope we shall speak more later.'  
  Merilhen tilted his head to one side 'I would be delighted, Glorfindel, but do not tear yourself from his side on my account.'   
 Glorfindel felt his cheeks redden, but Merilhen looked kindly at him, and he smiled, and entered the pavilion.

  
   
   
  Finrod was seated at one end of the long oval table, Orodreth by his side. Glorfindel hurried forwards as Finrod rose, and they found themselves folding together into a kiss as naturally as though they had been lovers for years, rather than hours, and as hungrily as though they had been parted for months rather than minutes. Glorfindel raised his head and smiled at Finrod.

  
  'I have a small gift for you, a mere token, an ornament, although you need none. It is nothing much.'  
   Finrod interrupted him with a laugh 'Do not apologise! I would be proud to receive a blade of grass from you, and I would treasure it forever.'  
  Glorfindel nodded slowly 'I would do the same. But this is not a blade of grass.'  
   He took out the opal, and placed the long chain over the head of Finrod, lifting the pale gold hair to set it around his neck. The heavy gemstone hung low on Finrod's chest, and Orodreth gave a quiet, wordless exclamation. They turned to look at him, he gestured at the opal, struggling visibly for words  
  'It is perfect, it goes perfectly, with the blue of his robe, the green of his own crest, the yellow and red of the crest of father, they are all echoed in the, in your, in...'  
  Their eyes met, but Glorfindel looked down at the opal, and said softly 'You forgot to mention the gold of his hair, the cream of his skin...' 

  
  Finrod blushed, but laughed 'I beg you not to address me thus, nor to say such things, in the presence of my council, for not only will everyone be embarrassed, but I will lose the power of speech, or even thought, if you do.'  
  He stepped away from Glorfindel and took hold of the back of his chair with both hands, visibly composing himself. Glorfindel looked around the room, there were inkwells, quills and parchments arranged on the long table, and clear glasses filled with minted water by each seat. He felt sobered by the formality of the arrangements, and looked at Finrod with a sense of trepidation that was almost new to him 

  
  'Where should I sit ?' he asked, almost shyly. The sons of Finarfin smiled at him, but Finrod gestured at the long table 'We do not take formality so far, sit where you please, soldier of Turgon, and be welcome at my council.'   
  Glorfindel looked quickly at Orodreth, seeking any clue he could glean about where best to sit, but Orodreth had turned to his brother. Glorfindel laughed at himself, he felt like an infant setting out for its first lessons, he was more unsure of himself than he had ever been in battle, he was baffled by the very first choice he had been given. Embarrassed, he sat down hurriedly in the nearest chair, on the other side of Finrod to Orodreth, and smiled awkwardly at them both.

  
  Finrod laid a hand on Glorfindel's shoulder. 'Be at ease, my love, I do not think that you will be called upon to speak on this occasion.' Glorfindel found the tension in his shoulders easing, he sighed, and from the corner of his eye saw Orodreth smile at him with understanding.  
  He smiled back as Finrod spoke loudly 'Very well, Gildor.'  The councillors filed into the pavilion and seated themselves without fuss. The atmosphere was that of a group accustomed to each other, but Glorfindel could feel, with his soldier's skin, the swaying currents of strife, for though these were allies with a common Enemy, their varying priorities and particular interests meant that their views and opinions frequently clashed. Glorfindel suppressed a smile; battle was so much simpler for a soldier, kill or be killed, one did not negotiate with the orc.

  
  Finrod rose to his feet and the council fell silent. In the stillness Finrod spoke  
 'Before the council begins its deliberations, I would make an announcement.'Glorfindel glanced round the carefully composed faces of the councillors, long practiced at concealing their personal opinions; he knew that here, at least, he would learn nothing from either their expressions or their words, not until he had had long experience of them as individuals, and of meetings such as this.

  
  Finrod continued 'I have spoken before of my intention, of the necessity, indeed, to form an expedition of reconnaissance, to investigate sites worthy of habitation, and consider the necessary fortification of vulnerable points in our defences. It is my intention, now, to launch the vanguard of this expedition at once, from this very place, under the direction of Gildor Inglorion, who is known to all here. In my absence, the regency will pass to Orodreth, my dearest brother and trusted companion and friend. He has my full confidence, and knows my mind on all matters which concern this council. Glorfindel, the newly appointed military liaison of our cousin Turgon, will also accompany the expedition, and provide assistance with the military considerations. 

  
   We shall travel South by boat, exploring the Narog, and return North along the coast. I shall build a house in Arvernien in the far South, which I have visited once before, on a ship out of Vinyamar. But the realm that we must govern is a land that I have never seen, and I can do nothing to defend it without much further intelligence of its nature and landscape.'  
  He paused and looked around at the solemn faces 'The Enemy seems to like the cold, he seems to remain in the far north; I am confident that travelling south will be comparatively safe. But Gildor will ensure that I am well guarded, and I shall return within in a year, or sooner, should the Enemy attack. Lines of communication will be maintained in the event of emergency, and for the exchange of news.' he smiled 'My friends, we may discover anything out there, undiscovered Sindar cultures, Dwarven realms in deep caverns, seams of precious stones exposed to the air, unseen by any eyes but ours.'

  
  His eyes turned to Glorfindel and he smiled; for Glorfindel the room and the councillors seemed to shrink and recede, only Finrod was there, full of quiet power and authority, as beautiful as sunlight, filling his astonished mind and his devoted heart.

  
  Glorfindel barely heard the words of the councillors as they asked questions and expressed their formal good wishes. At one point his eyes were caught by those of Merilhen, who smiled complicitly at him, and he remembered that these councillors would be surreptitiously scrutinising everything about him. He held himself straight and tried to adopt the solemnity of the other councillors, as Finrod offered the same reassurances for the fourth time. Nobody called on him to speak, nor, in fact, did Merilhen say anything, for all could see the necessity of the expedition, and there were no actual objections to any aspect of it. His own name and part in the expedition were not even mentioned, he felt at once conspicuous and insignificant, it was peculiarly unsettling.   
   
  Finrod's announcement of his imminent departure, while hardly a surprise, had caused the councillors to avoid raising questions that Finrod would now refer to Orodreth. There would be new opportunities now; for Orodreth, though of like mind to Finrod, lacked his authority, his eloquence and his skill at facilitating meetings.

  
  The eyes of the counsellors began to scrutinise each other, watching the currents of power shift as their minds assessed the new situation. Glorfindel forgot his self-consciousness as his interest in the minutiae of the subtle battlefield of diplomacy grew. He repressed a smile, Finrod clearly had no intention of making him a military liaison, he was to be whisked away to the South at once; it was possible, he concluded, that this would be the only such meeting he ever attended.  
  He could not restrain his smile, it had been only two days since they had met, his future was suddenly completely unknown to him, the undiscovered country of Beleriand attracted him like honeycomb; the thought of exploring it with his beloved Finrod, seeing it through the eyes of the new king, filled him with a delight he could not conceal. The next time he caught the eyes of Merilhen, he received a smile of joy in return, and knew that Merilhen, at least, wished him well.  
  But the councillors were chosen for their acute perceptiveness; to their experienced eyes, Glorfindel appeared as one skipping around the room, singing loudly. Their questions tailed off into smiles of unaccustomed warmth, there was an almost friendly atmosphere as Finrod called the meeting to a close, and the councillors thanked him. Finrod stood, and the others rose to their feet; Glorfindel's first council meeting was over.   
   
   
  A few of the councillors left, including Merilhen, who gave Glorfindel a cheerful wave. Finrod turned to give Orodreth some words of encouragement; the remaining councillors had gathered into two small groups and were talking quietly. Glorfindel was at a loss, his orders had run out, there were no more instructions, for the first time in his life, nobody would tell him what to do next. As the military liaison of Turgon, he should leave, as the lover of Finrod, he should remain.

  
  He turned, Finrod had his back to him, tall and straight, the deep blue formal robe hung shimmering from his wide shoulders. His pale gold hair flowed smoothly down his back, he looked what he was, a king of the Elves, and Glorfindel was choked with uncertainty and intimidation. He gripped the back of his chair, watching his knucles whiten with the strain. He was a novice on this battlefield, he felt both cold with fear and hot with embarrassment. He wished to flee, but despised his own cowardly urge. His own turmoil enraged him; for a moment he hated Finrod and all his House.

  
  Gildor appeared silently and placed a tray carrying two goblets of wine on the table between Glorfindel and Finrod, the councillors began to leave, and behind Finrod, Orodreth said farewell. 

  
  The pavilion altered for Glorfindel; from the remote formality of a council chamber of kings, it returned to being the dining room of his beloved Finrod, who was bidding farewell to his brother. He felt heartened by the presence of Gildor, the tray with two goblets reassured him, he knew that Finrod wished him to remain, but his sense of his own ignorance, his appalling weakness on this unfamiliar order and type of battlefield intimidated him, he felt nervous and hesitant. He could picture the other councillors taking off their masks of politeness and mocking him, laughing at Finrod, jeering. He clenched his teeth angrily, but his eyes fell on the rich red wine, he smiled coldly, a soldier should always be adequately provisioned; he took a goblet and drank deeply.

  
  Orodreth bade farewell to Glorfindel and departed. Gildor stood before Finrod and, carefully removing his formal robe, took it away with him. Finrod, in breeches and tunic, sat down with a sigh and picked up his goblet. Glorfindel felt his mind spin like a whirlwind as his purpose focused into a single intent, he breathed deeply, the world became solid and clear, the diamond hardness of certainty returned to him. He unfasted the garnet clasps of his own robe, but did not remove it. Finrod had put his goblet down and turned to smile up at Glorfindel with guileless joy in his eyes.

  
  But Glorfindel had seen the masks, his trust was shaken, Finrod seemed altered to him. He had seen masks before; he had never been troubled by masks, they had never mattered, either on the battlefield or in the bedchamber, but he had never before felt so vulnerable. The sense of his own weakness enraged him, he had never felt like this until he had encountered Finrod. Here was the cause of his anger. He looked down into the shining grey-blue eyes and remembered that they were alone, that there was nothing to stop him.

  
  Moving more swiftly than he ever had, he siezed Finrod by the wrists and twisted him round. The pale smooth hair slid across his face, like fingers of sunlight, like a caress. He pushed Finrod face down onto the table and held his wrists behind his back with one hand, while with the other he withdrew his dagger. The metallic hiss of the drawn blade made Finrod's body go rigid under him, Glorfindel smiled coldly as he carefully lowered the dagger into the seam of Finrod's breeches and cut apart the threads holding the garment together.

 He put the dagger on the table and widened the hole with his hand, then began to caress the exposed flesh. Finrod's body began to tremble, his breathing had become audible, Glorfindel smiled hungrily and guided himself into Finrod, who stiffened, and then slowly grew limp. They both uttered the same low sound, a breath of relief. For Glorfindel the world seemed coherent again, he was in the right place, doing the right thing, his lover moved eagerly against him, he stood still, shining with joy, love and desire, and knew that he would treasure the memory of this moment forever. 

 He looked around him, at the statue, glowing in a sharp pillar of sunlight, at the curtain of pearl and silver, and down at Finrod, whose eyes were closed and whose lips were parted, he moved a little, back and forth, and Finrod's eyes slowly opened. He turned his head slightly and smiled sideways at Glorfindel, the pale eyes, their pupils wide with desire, looked knowingly at him from the corners under the long lashes. Glorfindel marvelled at the change from the hesitant innocent of two days before. 

  
   He picked up the dagger and slid it gently between the tunic and the neck of Finrod. Carefully lifting the fabric he cut down the middle and tore it from Finrod's shoulders. With a strip torn from the ruined tunic he bound Finrod's hands, and gave a great sigh of relief. Finrod's eyes closed again, but Glorfindel, pressed inside him, could feel his arousal intensify. He ran his hands over the pale gold flesh, feeling at home, at peace, at ease, for the first time since he had awoken.

  
  He thought again of Finrod looking at him asleep, and comparing him with a painting of him asleep, and how he had awakened into his own nightmare, of being the plaything of one of these kings. His mind was in turmoil, the helplessness of Finrod filled him with an almost euphoric sense of power, his profound love for Finrod made him dream of slaying the Enemy to keep Finrod safe, but his joy seemed marred by the fact that this was the council chamber and beneath his hands was the king who ruled from it. He took up the dagger and slid it cautiously under the waistband of Finrod's rent breeches. The sharp blade sliced easily through the fine fabric, and Glorfindel tore away the shreds; finally he had his lover naked, he gloated over the creamy-gold skin, running his hands down the tightly-muscled sides, admiring the sinewy strength of Finrod the archer.

  
  He began to move, desire filled his mind; his rage at his own insignificance fuelled his passion, he gripped Finrod by the shoulders and thrust urgently into him, stooping over the helpless body, his own golden hair spilling forwards over his shoulders to mingle with the silvery gold hair of Finrod. The tangled strands moved across each other, curled and twisted as Glorfindel moved and Finrod's body moved with him. Their hair looked like water, thought Glorfindel, like water in blinding sunlight, tumbling ripples of gold. His mind seemed to float upwards through his body, his intense feelings focused to a point; the heat of Finrod's body, the flames of his own love burned through him, and with a furious intensity he hammered into Finrod as though he would slay him.  
  Finrod gasped and began to breathe noisily at each thrust, Glorfindel moved as one possessed by a single thought, the table shook and rocked beneath them, parchments scattered, quills floated to the floor, an inkwell overturned and spread a black pool across the table, soaking into parchment and quill. Finrod's skin began to glow with sweat, Glorfindel felt composed entirely of flame, there was only the heat of desire in all the world, his body moved urgently, desperate to reach the elusive treasure within Finrod, his mind floating clear, laughing at his own folly, until finally he reached his goal; his body convulsed as the ecstasy flooded through him, the bright hot joy of bliss, floating in the ocean of his love for Finrod.

  
  Still quivering slightly in bliss, he looked serenely down at Finrod gasping for breath and trembling beneath him. He ran his hands over the sleek, slick flesh, then stooped and began to lick the salty skin. Finrod whimpered softly, but Glorfindel lingered, tasting the delight of his lover's desperate desire, relishing his own power to delay or to release him, at his own whim. It was not he who was the plaything, it was Finrod, but only when Finrod was like this, made helpless by the bonds of his own desire, and the bonds with which Glorfindel restrained him. He moved more swiftly, his own power aroused him, he would give Finrod the release he craved; love filled his heart, he lifted Finrod and pressed him against his chest. With both hands he caressed Finrod's body, arched against him; he ran his hands down and began to move them, with increasing swiftness, until Finrod in his turn shook and convulsed and cried aloud in ecstasy, his head thrown back on Glorfindel's shoulder, his unseeing eyes half-closed. He became still in Glorfindel's arms and Glorfindel licked the long neck, and pressed his cheek against Finrod's, until Finrod turned to kiss him. Glorfindel realized with slight horror that it was their first kiss since before the council meeting. He stroked Finrod's stomach, considering how to convey his remorse.

  
  But Finrod raised his head and said 'I wish this moment could last forever.'  
  Glorfindel looked at him, startled 'I thought that myself, but...' he hesitated 'I wanted to preseve a different moment...' 

  
 Finrod laughed and shifted slightly in his arms, moving gently against him. 'I think I may be able to solve our riddle...' he laughed 'We simply have to repeat this act many times. Although neither moment will be preserved forever, nevertheless, we may enjoy such moments again in a seemingly endless fashion.'  
 Glorfindel laughed and kissed him 'But first, some wine. We must also preserve the times of rest.'   
   
  


	20. On The Narog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod and Glorfindel go downriver

On The Narog.- 

  
  They carried the grey canoe down the grassy slope and slid it into the green-brown water. Glorfindel held the end while Finrod climbed into a seat, then pushed away from the shingle and leapt aboard. They took up a paddle each and steered deftly for the swifter water. Soon the river carried them along, needing only occasional pulls to keep course. The endless green ripples of the northern plain flowed past, sometimes a grove of trees reached down to the low banks, sometimes herds of deer, disturbed at drinking, looked up with startled eyes.

 Finrod sighed contentedly and looked over his shoulder. Glorfindel grinned at him   
'You have truly escaped ! I did not think it could be done !'

 Finrod nodded 'I wonder if we have ? I fear they may be as the cat, which lets the mouse flee, then stretches out a claw...' he laughed shortly then shook his head 'No, I am unjust. We are not the mice but the kittens, allowed to play awhile...'

   
 'They have let us go for now. I propose that we enjoy every moment, for after all, orcs may attack, lightning may strike, fire may consume us, but we are together now !'  
Finrod reached out his hand and Glorfindel gripped it quickly, then looked over Finrod's shoulder. The river curved around a rising bank and the first hill they had seen all morning mounted on their right. They steered into a muddy creek and harboured. Finrod leapt ashore and strode up the hill, Glorfindel secured the canoe and followed up the long shallow rise. 

  
 From the top they could see for leagues around; in the distance, among woods, Glorfindel gestured to a rising column of smoke 'Sindar.' he said.

 Finrod nodded 'Shall we pay our respects ?' he said, 'We could gather news...'   
Glorfindel sighed 'You are right, of course. I suppose I wish that we had the whole world to ourselves. '

 Finrod laughed and nodded 'Come on, I will race you to the bottom of the hill !' he shouted over his shoulder, already leaping down the fresh spring grass. Glorfindel whooped and chased him, and near the bottom of the long slope he charged into Finrod from behind and threw him into a stumbling roll down the rest of the hill, falling tangled around him, and, Finrod realized, taking the brunt of the impacts. They lay breathless in each others arms, stunned and trembling.

 Finally Finrod had enough wind to say 'Why did you do that ?'

 Glorfindel shook his head 'I am so sorry, it was the chase, I just had to catch you... I could not stop myself... I am sorry.'

 Finrod laughed 'You are like a hare, jumping madly with the fever of love.' Glorfindel kissed him passionately, but after a while he stirred and looked up

 'Someone is coming.'

 Finrod raised his head 'Perhaps the Sindar saw us and are investigating.' 

  
  They arose, and coming towards them were four green-clad Sindar, one carrying a bow in hand. Finrod smiled and strode forwards 'Stars shine upon the hour of our meeting ! I am Finrod son of Finarfin and this is my love, Glorfindel.' 

  
The Sindar smiled, and one said 'You are welcome lord Finrod, we have had word of your coming, my lady Mîrwen would welcome you to our village.'

 Finrod looked at Glorfindel and said 'We must certainly pay our respects to the lady Mîrwen.' he turned back to the smiling Sindar ' Please lead the way.' 

  
 They followed the silent elves to the woods, and there among the treetops were the numerous talans of the village, threaded among the taller trees, with many slender bridges or ropes strung between them. A flute showered sparkling notes on them from above. Finrod was almost sorry that it was not dark, he longed to see the buildings glowing with lights. The spears of sunlight were scattered thickly in the deep green shade, early bluebells were opening, the air was soft and mild.

 Finrod inhaled deeply 'This is a lovely place, thank you for bringing us here.' he said, but the Sindar merely smiled, and stopped by a large tree. A rope-ladder uncurled down the trunk, the Sindar held the end and bowed to Finrod, who smiled and began to climb eagerly.

  
  The carven hall at the top was a little larger than Finrod's pavilion, but only a little. The main chamber held a dozen elves, all of whom rose at Finrod's entrance. The lady Mîrwen, robed in shimmering green, stepped forwards, she wore a silver circlet with a large pearl.

 'Welcome sire, to the hall of Caranthôl, will you take some wine with us ?' a servant appeared with a tray of goblets, Finrod took one gratefully, and sipped the rich red wine.  
It was not familiar to him, dryer than he preferred.

 'It is a local vintage' said Mîrwen, 'Good for cutting through rich sauces...'

 Finrod smiled 'Or with a nice hot pie.' he looked at Glorfindel, who carefully savoured the wine, then said

 'I do not seem to have your refined palate, it tastes like wine to me.'

 Finrod smiled, then turned to Mîrwen 'But my palate would be very interested in swapping some of your wine for something you might like ?'

 Mîrwen smiled broadly and gestured at a couch 'please make yourselves comfortable my lord, I feel certain that we have much to discuss.'


	21. Excavating Nargothrond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod is given the name Felagund by the Dwarves.

  
Excavating Nargothrond. -

   Frélin led the way down the freshly-carved passage toward the cave with the spring; he was proud beyond his ability to express that he had detected the water source by himself for the first time. The elders would now have to give serious thought to his promotion to guild-master. He almost whistled.  
Behind him, the strange king of the Elves reclined almost naked in the arms of his gigantic blond lover. They claimed to be married, 'more married than your mortal heart can conceive...' but Frélin found them altogether peculiar.

 However, the king did know one end of a chisel from the other, and truly, the pillars he had carved into the likeness of his lover were realistic enough to frighten the mead out of an unsuspecting Dwarf. The king was speaking

  'Are you going to tunnel into these caverns ?' Frélin and the rest of the Dwarves all stopped in their tracks. Frélin turned, and looked up at the old eyes in the lovely young face  
  'Caverns, sire ?'

  
  The king raised an eyebrow

  'Do you not feel the great spaces around us ?' he asked. Frélin, eyes wide, looked round at his companions, seeing frowns and pursed lips, and shrugs.  
  He looked back at the king

 'Do you tell us that you can detect hidden caverns by... by feel ?'  
  The king raised his head and spoke softly in his lover's ear. The lover sighed and lowered the king to the ground, reaching behind the kings back. The king brought his hands out and Frélin realized he had been manacled, he was still wearing manacles, on wrists and ankles, and had the calluses of a long-term prisoner. The only thing covering him was a jewelled belt, which barely concealed his private parts.  
  Frélin looked curiously at the lover who had done these things to his beloved; the blond giant was watching the king as if he were the only thing in the world, his shining eyes at once possessive and predatory. Frélin found his mind flinching away from the terrible age and deep strangeness of the Elves. The demi-goddess in the forest had been eerie enough, followed around by songbirds... But these two lovers; he was getting old, homesick for proper Dwarf caverns filled with proper Dwarves...

  
  The king pressed himself against the rock, as though to listen with his whole body. He turned to Frélin

  'Let two of you stand, here and there, and in turn strike this rock with your hammers.'  
Frélin nodded, the king pressed himself back against the rock and was still. The sounds of the hammers was loud in the passageway, the king flinched a little, then gestured at a particular spot, halfway up the wall

  'Yonder lies a large cavern. Over here, there is a strange dullness to the echoes; something dense, heavy, is dampening the sound.'  
Frélin and the Dwarves looked hopefully at each other, if this weird king could detect valuable ores just by listening to echoes...

  
  The king turned to his lover 'Do you not feel it ? Try leaning against the rock.'  
The lover smiled and pressed himself against the opposite wall, the Dwarves used their hammers again. But the lover shook his head  
 

  'I am sorry, my love, I do not have your sensitivity. Though there is something strange through there ' he gestured at the rock beside him 'It may chance that you will find a warm lake like the one in Menegroth'  
He smiled warmly at the king, who buried his hands in the thick gold hair and kissed him. The lover swept the king up in his arms and carried him away without a word. The stunned Dwarves watched as the giant's head came down on the king's throat as if to tear it out, and the king's own head hung back over his lover's arm, the straight fair hair cascading like a waterfall.  
  
  Finally they turned a corner and were gone. Frélin shook himself and waved his hands in the air  
 

   'All right lads, the king wishes us to dig here, so here we shall dig. Any objections ?' The Dwarves looked at each other in silence, then one said

  
   'Is he really... I mean... Do they...'

  
  Frélin rolled his eyes

  'Look, he is not our king! We only have to dig, take our pay and leave. What the customer does in his own time is none of our business. However orcish that giant may seem to act, he comes with personal recommendations from impeccable sources. We just have to accept it as Elvish weirdness. I know its not the fact that they're both males that bothers you, but the way they go about. Well, I asked the king about that.' There were gasps 'I did. Do you know what he said ? He said that they liked to hold each other close. Personally, I think its romantic.'  
His face and voice suddenly changed

  'Now stop moaning and get digging !'

***********************************************************************************************

 

  When the entrances to the two new-found caverns were large enough to admit Elves, and the 'dense' ore had been found to be beautiful creamy-white marble, Frélin himself ran to fetch the king.

  
  The Elvish guards were reluctant to let him even approach the door, but his enthusiasm must have crossed the abyss of incomprehension between their races, for all too soon he found his hand raised to knock at the king's door. A moment later the door was wrenched open and Frélin stepped back in fear.  
The giant was there, cold fury in his face, seeming to bristle all over, almost sparking like a lightning-struck tree. But behind him, spread-eagled, bound hand and foot, streched out naked, his head hanging back, was the king, his breathing audible, his arousal obvious, his whole body seemed to quiver.

  
   Frélin's eyes goggled, he choked out an apology and backed away. From the bed came the words

  'Have you found caverns ?'

  
  Frélin at once felt on more familiar ground

  'Yes lord, precisely where you suggested. They are open now for your inspection. Furthermore, the ore you detected is creamy-white marble, we think enough to build something substantial such as a tower.'

  
  The giant was closing the door 'We shall soon be with you.' he said.  
 

  'Wait !' cried Frélin, 'There is another thing!'

  
  The giant paused and looked at the trembling king 'Be swift, my friend, it does not do to keep a king waiting, even one so kind as Finrod.'

  Frélin nodded excitedly 'The Dwarves, that is, we, the Dwarves, have given king Finrod a title of honour, the name 'Felagund' , which is 'digger of holes'. To you this may seem a trivial title, but to us, caverns are always treasure, even empty. We honour you, King Finrod Felagund !'

  
  On the bed, Finrod raised his head and looked solemly across his own bare chest at the beaming dwarf

  'I thank you with all my heart, Frélin, I shall treasure the title and use it henceforth. But now you must leave us. He has me at his mercy and I would not like to make him any more impatient than he already is.'

  
  Frélin blushed, bowed and almost ran back down the passage, trying to ignore the faint sniggers from the guards of Finrod Felagund.  
  



	22. Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingolfin orders the separation of Finrod and Glorfindel

Intervention.-

  
  Glorfindel woke alone, he sat up swiftly and looked wildly about him, there were guards on both doors; he sagged, he had always known that this day would come, that they would take away his beloved for their own ambitious schemes. He snarled to himself, of course he knew that defeating the Enemy was the only hope, but he wanted Finrod for himself... He rose and spoke to the guard 'Where is he ?'

  
 The guard looked coldly at him 'What do you care ? We all saw the state he was in when they took him away.' The guard snorted contemptuously and sneered at Glorfindel 'You look almost as bad yourself. The fault is yours, you have brought this upon yourself. ' 

  
 Glorfindel blinked and looked down at himself, he was looking a little thin, and bones were showing that he had not been used to seeing... Perhaps they did forget to eat rather too often, or to sleep... 'Where is he ?' he insisted.

 The guard shook his head 'Do you really think that anyone will ever again tell you where he is ?'   
Glorfindel felt his heart stop for an instant, the light receded and he saw only darkness; he staggered, the guard reached out and helped him to a bench, then poured some miruvor. Glorfindel took it in a trembling hand; already... They had already taken him, there would not even be a farewell. He dropped the glass and began to scream. 

  
 Turgon strode into the room and shouted 'Stand to attention soldier !' and Glorfindel's old habits raised him sharply to his feet. He looked with fury at Turgon. Turgon nodded and sighed 'I am sorry. You will feel that I am to blame once more, for keeping you apart. But this order is from Fingolfin himself, and I regret very much that I was sent to carry out this awful task. He is gone, you will not be told where. You yourself are ordered back to Vinyamar to rejoin your troop, though you are promoted to captain, and given leave to found a house and bear colours of your own device.' 

  
  Glorfindel snorted softly. All his wishes granted, and it meant nothing to him now, less than nothing, the pain in his chest seemed to be larger than his body, to fill the space around him, he was surprised that Turgon was not feeling it himself. But his pain blinded him to the lesser pain Turgon was feeling, breaking two hearts he himself was very fond of was a torment to him, but the necessity was plain. There had been no dissenting voice, all were agreed that Finrod must be rescued from Glorfindel, who was destroying him. However willingly Finrod participated in his own destruction, his kin and kingdom would not stand by and do nothing to prevent it. 

  
 Turgon looked down at Glorfindel; no longer the magnificent athlete, he was pale, bone and sinew showing under gaunt grey shadows, plainly exhausted, as though from loss of blood and severe injury. Yet, thought Turgon, head on one side, the Light in him glowed through like none he had ever seen before, even in his pain. Poor Finrod looked as dim as an empty lamp, but Glorfindel seemed to have soaked up all the Light of both of them. Turgon wondered wildly what Glorfindel would do with all that power. But it was Light, and though Glorfindel had shamefully neglected both Finrod and himself, he was a good person as well as a good soldier, and Turgon was confident that when Glorfindel was more like his old self, all would be well. After all, they had barely been together for a hundred years; although their love was already a matter of song and tale, and paintings, he thought, and plays, and hundreds of coarse jokes... 

  
 Glorfindel sat suddenly, trembling, then began to weep silently, mouth closed, tears flowing unchecked from unseeing eyes. The long empty millenia stretched ahead, devoid of Finrod, devoid of purpose. He had no notion of how to fill this one day, let alone the empty aeons ahead. Grief filled him, like a scaffolding of pain that does not support the building but undermines it instead. He writhed inside, there was no hope, Finrod could be anywhere, he himself would be followed wherever he went by better scouts than he could ever hope to be.  

 There could be no finding Finrod. He was gone, gone forever, unless they both should return from Mandos in some unguessable future. Glorfindel groaned in agony. Despair rose in him like choking black mud, darkness filled his heart and his eyes.   
Again Turgon shouted 'Stand to attention soldier !' and once more Glorfindel found himself upon his feet. He looked at Turgon as at a stranger, one standing a long way off, that had not been recognized. Turgon frowned at him 'You have been negligent, soldier, you will cease this behaviour at once, you will return to your regiment immediately and report for duty. Clearly you are unfit for active service but light duties will be found while you recover your former strength. Dismissed.' 

  
There was a long silence. Turgon stood as still as he could, Glorfindel was like stone, not breathing, Turgon swallowed nervously; Glorfindel might be a gaunt relic of his usual self, but even like this he was still the most dangerous elf known to Turgon. Furthermore, thought Turgon, all that sinew looks perfectly capable of breaking a neck... But Glorfindel blinked tiredly, then saluted, and marched smartly out of the room.

 Turgon shuddered and sighed with relief, but the anguished scream stayed thereafter in his mind, and he never quite recovered from the sound of such loss.


	23. Doriath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melian tries to help Finrod

Doriath.-

  
  Melian climbed the last stairs and emeged onto the high balcony, Finrod was there, still as a tree, gazing out across the forest. She pursed her lips, then stood beside him. He turned and gave her a weak smile, but did not speak. They stood in silence for a while, then Melian said softly

'Perhaps music would help ?'

  
Finrod flinched 'Please, there is nothing that would help. Please do not trouble yourself with me. '

Melian sighed 'You will not always feel this much pain, gradually the grief will fade, and you will return to your former pastimes, and your friendships, and always have the memory of your happiness.' 

  
Finrod shook his head 'No, the grief will not fade, how could it ? The love will not fade, the grief will be with me until he is. Please do not concern yourself. I am sorry if I am upsetting people.'

  
'Oh Finrod, we cannot endure to see you suffer so, we are your family, we care very much for you, we want you to be happy. '

  
He turned to her with eyes feverish with rage 'We were happy.' he said coldly. She sighed again 'But Finrod, you were starving, he was starving, you were destroying each other. We had to separate you, for your own good. You know this.'

  
 'My own good... I had everything I ever wanted, we were blissfully happy, why did you have to...' his voice choked off. He seemed to crumble, he turned and sat heavily, leaning against the balcony, weeping silently.

 Melian sat down beside him 'I am truly sorry for your pain. I wish I could help you somehow.'

  
 Finrod looked at her 'Tell me where he is.'

 Melian frowned 'I cannot, even if I knew, Fingolfin has forbidden it. Thingol agrees with him. I am sorry Finrod, but you must learn to live without him.'

  
 'Why ?' said Finrod, 'He means more to me than all the rest of the world put together. He means more to me than those silmarils mean to my cousins. He is the only thing I want. I will search for him until I find him, or perish in the attempt. '

  
 Melian shook her head 'You will never find him. Turgon will take him to the hidden city, guarded by eagles, you will never discover its location.'

  
 Finrod laughed shortly 'Nevertheless, the search is the only thing that could ease my pain. In any case, if Turgon found this place, I do not doubt that I too will discover it in time.'

  
'You will be prevented. It is forbidden that you meet. I am sorry.' 

  
 Finrod wiped the tears from his face and stood up 'I am going to find him. That is all.'

  
 Melian stood and looked intently at Finrod's pale thin face. His eyes seemed huge, surrounded by shadow, his cheekbones sharp against the hollows below. His jaw was clenched painfully tightly, his anguish wrung her heart. She gathered her strength then took his hand in hers and poured as much of her healing power into him as she could muster. He gave a slight sigh, his body unclenched a little, and the tears flowed again. She took him in her arms and held him while he sobbed, but soon he shook himself, and held her at arms length

 'I feel different, have you done something to me ?' he asked.

 She smiled 'Just a little healing. But come down, dine with us, and share the wine and good cheer. Your sister will be pleased to see you smile again.'

  
 Finrod nodded 'I am sorry, I have been selfish. Yes, I will come.'

  
The next morning he had gone. The guards said that he had ridden north before dawn, taking only a pack of supplies. Thingol had him followed but he easily eluded the pursuit, and crossed the Girdle into Beleriand.

They never saw him again.


	24. The Hidden Valley.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel comes to terms with life in Gondolin, and comes to understand himself a little more, when his awe for the achievements of Ecthelion awakens him to beauty once more.

 

The Hidden Valley.

 

In the ilex.

Glorfindel breathed consciously, holding each inhalation to the count of three, pausing, then slowly releasing the air. His pounding heart gradually quieted, he shook out his sweating limbs. The early run had been long, the twilight air chill at first, causing him to sprint to warm himself, but now the sun cast long sharp shadows across the grass-clad slopes, and above Glorfindel a tall figure stooped among the ilex. Glorfindel frowned, it was surely Ecthelion, but to see him in the park at this time of day was so remarkable that Glorfindel, normally not someone who would intrude upon such a formal and formidable acquaintance, felt moved to address him.  
 'Ho ! Ecthelion, blessings of Yavanna upon you this fine morning ! What brings you to the park at such an hour ?' 

 Ecthelion turned his head slightly and pointed a cautious hand at the leaves over which he stooped. In a quiet voice he said 'I wonder if the square frame is really the best way of weaving.'

Glorfindel gaped at Ecthelion, and laughed softly at himself. He had known Ecthelion all their lives, they were of an age, and in larger groups had played together as infants. But their characters and interests had drifted them into different circles, and they rarely spoke beyond the exchange of pleasantries at chance encounters. Furthermore, Glorfindel freely admitted, he found the serious intellectual rigour of Ecthelion chilling and intimidating, and preferred the company of those who liked to laugh and sing. It was all of a piece with the character of Ecthelion that he should be reinventing the loom instead of enjoying the beauty of the morning. 

Ecthelion blushed, he could see that Glorfindel thought him a fool; he had not even remembered to greet him, just blurted out whatever he was thinking, like an idiotic child. He stood up straight, trying to muster his dignity in the face of the dazzling smile of Glorfindel, finding himself appalled at such beauty; the golden hair hung in tresses, clinging together and laid across the golden-brown skin by the gleaming sweat, sparkling like diamonds in the crisp dawn light. Ecthelion felt a shock pass through him, his chest crushed by the hand of a giant, his breath ceased. Time halted. 

The smile faded from the shining Glorfindel, Ecthelion had gone pale, but for burning patches of rose-pink high on his face. Glorfindel cursed his own frivolity, Ecthelion would think himself mocked, but Glorfindel could find no words, he smiled, more from habit than intent, and found his eye caught by the trees behind Ecthelion. On the instant, he grasped the solution 'Please show me what you were observing when I interrupted you ?' he said politely. 

Ecthelion blinked once or twice, but Glorfindel had always been polite, and while he might have little enthusiasm for intellectual pursuits, he was more than capable of pursuing any field of inquiry should he be so inspired. For a dizzy moment Ecthelion imagined himself leading Glorfindel into study... But within a second he had a vision of Glorfindel at the harp singing a mocking drinking-song about Ecthelion looking at cobwebs. The tale of Glorfindel and Erestor was known to all, how the scholar had loved the beautiful Glorfindel, but after years of tireless labour and with the learned and wise of Valinor beside him, had not inspired the least of interest in Glorfindel, though they had been lovers and remained close friends. Glorfindel was a soldier, unconcerened with the scrolls of lore, or the pursuit of wisdom. However, Ecthelion too was polite, so he answered Glorfindel in his customary serious manner. 

 'Observe the cobwebs; some stretch across individual leaves, while others connect leaves to each other, or to stems and branches. While humble Elven weavers are trapped in one plane, these cunning spiders alter space itself to attain their goals. We should learn from them. '  
 Glorfindel peered closely at the cobwebs, thinking  "Cobwebs !" realizing he had never given the least thought to the actions of spiders, and feeling newly arrived in a strange country. The delicate intricacy of the silken constructions was beautiful, each gleaming thread precisely placed; here a supporting cord held two leaves together, there, row after row were laid between two of the supports, each neatly parallel; it was something from an advanced text on geometry, it was exquisite. He felt his mind, like a tiny boat for a child, bobbing out over vast fathomless depths, which he knew to be his own ignorance. He looked with wide, helpless eyes at Ecthelion.  
 'They are so lovely, I feel as one who has never before seen a cobweb. But my dear Ecthelion, I have not the least notion of how this could alter the loom; you must find one more gifted in the skills of Aulë than I with whom to discuss these high matters.' Glorfindel grinned at Ecthelion 'Though I have only myself to blame, since it was I who interrupted your contemplation and raised the subject. Please accept my apology and withdrawal.' He smiled again, the full warmth of his enthusiasm directed into the eyes of Ecthelion, and noted with satisfaction the colour return to the white face. Ecthelion smiled in return, and Glorfindel found his own heart warmed; Ecthelion was such a cerebral character that it was easy to forget his physical beauty. But here, in the bright dawn, his dark hair gleamed with the red of firelight, his sage-blue eyes seemed to fill half the sky, his dark, subtle lips unfolded in the precious smile that Glorfindel had so rarely seen since life had edged them apart. Glorfindel stepped back, his heart beating faster than he would prefer; his breathing seemed more laboured than before he had paused to rest. He smiled again and bowed   
 'Valar smile on your works, Ecthelion, I must away, farewell !' and ran across the grass to the trees by the gate of the park.

But something had awakened within Glorfindel; the wound of the agonising loss of Finrod, after more than two hundred years, during which he had almost come to believe in the smiling mask he wore, ached anew in his heart. He knew that between himself and Finrod were barriers beyond the impassable mountains of Gondolin, for the mighty family led by Fingolfin also stood between them. Hope dashed in vain against the implacable cliffs of their opposition, he would never escape his gilded prison, nor could poor Finrod free himself. They were trapped, apart, and the long loneliness had altered Glorfindel; for all his charm and ready wit, the blythe smile was faded, though the vibrant spirit within him shone brighter than ever, and the sadness, for those who remembered, merely sweetened the dazzling beauty.

Ecthelion stood under the holly trees and gazed after him, motionless, as one turned to stone, beyond even trembling. He remembered the launch of Arien, the solid alteration of the nature of the air; the warmth and weight and roar of what they now called sunlight. For him, a new sun had risen, and the name of the sun was Glorfindel.

 

  
In the study.

Ecthelion sighed, his heart still hammering, though his breathing was calmer, his mind still a frenzied whirl of memory and speculation, with every thought and feeling seeming to arise from or fall towards the now central notion of Glorfindel. Glorfindel ! He sighed again and stretched his long legs; the mallorn desk was so placed that there was room in the bay of the window to stretch out even should he slide as far forward on the seat as he could. The other advantage, he realized for the first time that morning, was the panoramic view of the avenue, and since this was the principal thoroughfare for the whole of Gondolin, he felt certain that Glorfindel would eventually pass by. Since the early morning, since he had watched Glorfindel racing away across the hillside, Ecthelion had been able to think of nothing else. The commission for the design of the public fountains to commemorate the two hundredth anniversary of Gondolin seemed a trifling irrelevancy to him now. He looked down at the neat stack of parchment plans as though seeing them for the first time; the elegant lines of the first illustration seemed clumsy, wooden and mawkish with eyes fresh from the embodied grace of the vigour of Glorfindel. A part of Ecthelion wished to tear the parchments to shreds and run screaming into the street, but even as the wish solidified into thought, he gazed through the lattices of the wide window and thought of the many times he had seen Glorfindel pass his window, and of how almost always a crowd of varied size would be following at his heels, like birds behind the plough.   
After the loss of Finrod, Glorfindel had sought comfort in the arms of the actor Melairë, with whom he had had an early entanglement in Valinor. The affair had been brief, but the actor, a flamboyant figure, had been open in his own grief at the loss, and shared his tale with all who would heed him. Glorfindel, already subject of the dreams of many, became an object of active pursuit, though no other, it seemed, had caught his eye. Erestor was far away, advisor to the High King, and Glorfindel, though always surrounded by admirers, remained alone. None had dared to presume to take the place of the beautiful Finrod, child of Finarfin and King of West Beleriand, beloved by all.

Ecthelion laughed dryly at himself and ran his hands through his hair, wondering at the ill-fate that had left him alone in the path of the devastating beauty of Glorfindel that dawn, and how soon it would be until he could recover his customary mood. Then, like a cold draught at his heels, the thought began to occur to him that love itself had struck him, and that he would feel this same intense consuming fire within himself until the world ended.   
 He leaped to his feet, sending his chair crashing over backwards, and strode across to the fireplace. The sound of hurrying footsteps approached and the concerned face of the butler appeared at the door  
 'Is all well sire ?' the butler asked, and smoothly flowed across the room, raised the chair, set it in its place and flowed smoothly back to the door, as gracefully as the dancer Ecthelion knew him to be. Ecthelion smiled 'I am sorry to have disturbed you, I was engrossed in thought and moved too swiftly, overturning my chair in my clumsy way.'  
 The butler nodded gravely 'Is there anything I can bring for you, sire ? Or anyone ?'  
Ecthelion thought wildly for an instant of simply sending for Glorfindel; an invitation to dine, or even drink, might pique his curiosity. But Ecthelion immediately remembered that he himself, a dull, reclusive character, was irritated by the time wasted declining the many invitations he recieved. For Glorfindel it must be a deluge... Ecthelion wanted no part of such frenzy. He realized with horror that the butler was looking at him with what now amounted to anxiety. He frowned, then said   
 'I think I may be a little nervous. Perhaps a small glass of wine...'

The butler smiled, bowed and withdrew, in one smooth movement. Ecthelion snorted softly, if he could get the water in his fountains to flow as smoothly as the old butler, he would be a happy Elf. If Turgon chose his fountain designs to build... He moved back to the desk and picked up the sheaf of his designs, wondering anew at his boldness in even presuming to enter such a contest, against great artists and sculptors on the one hand, and great engineers and crafters on the other hand. He smiled and looked at his own hands, so young, so inexperienced, how had he ever dared to enter... An increase in the sound from the avenue raised his head briefly, and a flash of gold at the bottom of the hill caught his eye.   
 Glorfindel was there. The customary laughing crowd surrounded him, it was something like a circus parade, jugglers, tumblers, singers, acrobats, dancers... they flowed around him, vying for his attention, stallholders proffering him flowers, cakes, goblets of wine...   
Ecthelion felt something ease inside himself, the spell of Glorfindel had affected him as it affected all he met, he was no worse off now than he had been this morning, Glorfindel was as remote as Tirion still, and always would be. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, watching the unofficial procession pass his window. Glorfindel did not glance in his direction, Ecthelion felt sure Glorfindel had no notion that he passed the house of Ecthelion every day, nor would Glorfindel be in the least interested to discover that. When the shining figure passed finally behind the trees farther up the hill, Ecthelion forced his breathing to steady and his heart to slow its pounding. He sighed, looked down again at the parchments and wondered if he was truly percieving reality, or whether emotion had swept him from the path of reason and left him conjuring phantasms in his mind...

 There were footsteps and a knock at the door. Ecthelion frowned, the butler would normally simply bring the wine to Ecthelion, not await permission to enter. He frowned at the door and said brusquely 'Please enter.'  
 It was not the butler, but his father, Pelathrad, carrying an old bottle from which he was dusting the cobwebs even as he came smiling into the room   
 'So, my son, to celebrate my pride in you, whatever the outcome of the deliberations of My Lord Turgon, I have ordered up a bottle of Nectar of Ingwë.'   
 Ecthelion gaped at his father in astonishment; Nectar of Ingwë had been brewed in Valinor, by the ladies of the court of Ingwë himself, and carried back to Middle-Earth across the Helcaraxë on the shoulders of a suffering Elf. On the other hand, it would be wasteful not to drink it now that it was here, and his father was right, though he did not know why; this was indeed the appropriate occasion to taste the Nectar. He smiled and brought two fine silver goblets over to his father, who looked narrowly at him. 

 'How is it with you, my son ? There is an air about you today that recalls to me...' his voice tailed off into silence, his thoughts had run faster than his tongue, his mind was drawn to the memory of the fey voice and manner of Fëanor, to whom he had been close in his youth, towards the end of their time in Valinor. But Ecthelion regarded him calmly as Pelathrad twisted the cork from the bottle and filled the goblets with the rich plum-coloured wine. The two Elves, father and son, raised their goblets and drank, the smooth sweetness of the wine seemed like the living soul of the fruit in the mouth, then melted away in the throat, leaving a faint smoky hint of the onset of autumn, like a draught of glowing mist...   
Ecthelion nodded slowly 'Father, I shall not count the struggle vain, though my ideas be rejected by the king, for that one mouthful alone; I had no notion wine could be as exquisite as this !'   
Pelathrad smiled and nodded, looking into the dark depths of his goblet 'Indeed, for though the vines of Lorien are the richest, the ladies of Ingwë have the skills to truly delight the elven palate. Perhaps because only they can taste the wine as we ourselves taste it. What is wine to one such as Irmo ? Who can say ? Decoration ? Stimulant ? Garnish ?' he paused and drank, watching his son over the rim of the goblet.

  Ecthelion was pale but flustered, still but agitated. Pelathrad was puzzled, Ecthelion had been planning for this commission for more than a year of the sun, he had remained calmly enthusiastic throughout. This was indeed the largest project he had undertaken, but by no means the most frightening thing he had done. Pelathrad frowned briefly, there was something else here, something that he himself did not know. He looked directly into Ecthelion's eyes   
 'What has happened Ecthelion, your mood is strangely altered today, there is more on your mind than the gardens of Turgon. Come, share your thoughts with me. I may have wisdom that others have generously shared with me, to help you in your trouble.'  
The eyes of Ecthelion widened briefly and his lips parted as though he would speak, but he merely raised the glass to his lips and drank again. For the first time in the whole of the life of Ecthelion, Pelathrad felt his son to be a stranger, entirely separate from himself, with a point of view unique to himself, that could never truly be shared. He saw himself, physically reflected on the eyeballs of his son, a tiny, remote stranger, far beyond all hope of true communication, and he understood, for the first time it seemed, that his son was fully adult, a distinct person, who must be accorded the respect due to any adult Elf, and more; for here was one selected to present his designs for the commemorative fountains before the king himself, this very day. The heart of Pelathrad warmed with pride as he looked at his tall, handsome son, and he smiled warmly at him.   
 'Truly, Ecthelion, you fill me with pride, the whim of Turgon can take nothing from the accomplishment of your designs, whether they are ever carved and built is of no consequence, the project you undertook is complete, your designs are beautiful and your skill as an engineer is beyond question. I congratulate you.' He raised his goblet and drank to his son. Ecthelion smiled, but his face worked oddly as thoughts moved in his mind, his fingers knotted themselves around the stem of his own goblet until he became aware of it and drank himself, then heaved a great sigh.   
Pelathrad looked at him in consternation, this was not the nervousness of a competitor at the starting line, this was the sound of unrequited love, or he, Pelathrad, confidante to many, had never heard it before. He frowned for a brief moment. Ecthelion, at the wish of his mother, had been raised in the country, among those who shunned the crowds and noise of the city. They had lived quietly themselves, his wife finding friendship among the mothers of the other children, while he had struggled to cultivate artistic pursuits, with little success. His joy at their return to the busy life of the city had not blinded him to the fact that his quiet son seemed no closer to the social whirl than he had in the woods and meadows of Valinor. Ecthelion, for all his learning, knew little of the ways of the world. Pelathrad moved forward and laid a gentle hand on the forearm of his son.

 'Of course, if it is a matter of love, of affairs of the heart, perhaps you would choose to confide in your Mother ?' He watched Ecthelion closely, but the worried face barely changed. Ecthelion knew that his love was so utterly beyond hope that he was unable to think of it as such at all, more like an injury in an embarrassing place, not to be mentioned in polite company. He smiled, warmed by such kindness and tact, and decided to help his father out of his discomfort.  
 'Oh father, the fact is that I feel like a small child, no, the fact is that I still feel like a small child, nervous about taking my homework to show to my teacher, afraid of being ridiculed in front of others. And really, father, the small frightened child is real, he is still inside me, twisting my innards into knots, making my heart pound and my dry teeth clench together.'   
 Pelathrad smiled and held up his goblet 'Well, of course, that is partly the purpose of the wine, to wet your lips, unclench your jaws and slow your pounding heart.' He paused and drank and his eyes came to rest on the tapestry behind Ecthelion, with its view of the harbour at Vinyamar. It was an exquisite piece, the very wings of the gulls picked out in light and shade. For a moment the sea-longing rose in his heart and he smiled sadly, wondering when he would ever see the sea again. The remote horizon of the figured ocean calmed his mind, and he turned to his son and said in tones of certainty

 'Truly, Ecthelion, within each of us the infant lingers, a living memory of that which was. But also within you is the boy who succeeded so well at his lessons, and the youth who became so accomplished in the use of weapons, and the adult who plays the flute so expertly, and the engineer who designed the curtain of water in the garden to delight his Mother, and the artist whose designs will be presented to the king himself this day. I tell you, my son, I would be proud of you, of your accomplishments, if you had done only one of these things, if you were  a flautist and nothing else beside, you are such a brilliant flautist that my pride in you is a flaming jewel as precious as a Silmaril to me, kept here in my heart.' He paused and pressed a hand to his chest, then continued passionately 'But no, you are a great athlete, a mighty warrior, a thinker, an artist, you are all of these things; my pride in you burns like the very fires of Arien in my heart, and you tell me you are a frightened child ! Oh Ecthelion, no faith is required to believe in yourself, you know that within you is not merely a frightened child, but also a formidable adult, to whom the child can confidently turn for reassurance. Remember that you now tower over that child, hold out your hand to the frightened child and comfort it with the knowledge of all that you have learned and the certainty of all of which you know yourself to be capable. '   
Pelathrad stopped and drank deeply. Ecthelion blinked, turned away slightly and drank himself. Then he turned a few pages of the sheaf of parchments over and picked one out. Pelathrad leaned back to peer over his shoulder without attracting his notice, to discover which parchment it was. The clean lines of the statue of Varda were visible across the room, the precision and confidence of Ecthelion with the quill had always chilled Pelathrad slightly; the artistry was all from his Mother, he himself knew all that there was to know about people but could neither draw a line, carry a tune nor dance any but the simplest of measures. He smiled wryly, to have produced this son might be considered his Work of Art; he sipped the Nectar and nodded to himself, yes, he was content.   
 But Ecthelion carefully replaced the parchment in the sheaf, and moved behind the desk, where he leaned his head against the panes of the window with a softly ominous thud.

 

 

In anticipation.

 Pelathrad shifted the heavy bag to a more comfortable position on his shoulder and looked sourly at the hooded eagle gripping his other arm. Behind him the sky grew paler at the approach of the sun, ahead the last stars faded. The air was cool and still, even the birches scattered on the hillside were silent, pale and ethereal among the long dewy grass. The park around him was empty and quiet, the eagle on his arm had silenced the dawn chorus as thoroughly as though it had uttered a command, though being hooded it could see nothing of what was around it. Pelathrad questioned his own health of mind for the hundredth time, then shook his head and trudged on up the slope. It was a tiny thing to do for his son, a little gesture, but it would make a difference, it would make Ecthelion smile, and his smiles were so rare of late that Pelathrad would have almost been ready to shed his own blood to see one.  
 The building materials were neatly piled along the path beside him, he reached the familiar site and got into the position that the statue of Manwë would occupy when complete. It was his intention to train this eagle, in the solitude of the dawn, to land on an outstretched arm at the top of this hill, such that when the statue itself was finally unveiled, a real eagle would alight on the glass image of Manwë, and bring a smile to the face of his son. He sighed, the eagle seemed to view him with contempt, and Pelathrad was concerned that it would tear a lump from his face, which he would be unable to account for without mortifying explanations. The mere thought flushed his face with embarrassment. Reluctantly he removed the hood from the eagle. The orange eyes seemed grey in the dimness, they looked coldly at him. The eagle shifted its weight from talon to talon, and turned its head sideways and glared at him.   
Pelathrad, who had been in battles, clenched his teeth and grinned coldly back at the bird. With one hand he pulled a strip of steak from the bag and waved it in front of the eagle   
'Yes, you want this, and you know what to do !' he hissed at it, then threw the raptor up into the air. It croaked indignantly and flapped its great wings once or twice, then floated around the hilltop, turning its head to keep its eyes fixed on the idiot which supplied the steak. Pelathrad posed his arm as the statue would be, and waited. The bird sailed silently overhead, circling the hill, its focus entirely on the strip of steak. Pelathrad knew that it wanted to seize the steak and perch on the tallest tree, but he had no intention of releasing the steak until the bird was on his outstretched wrist. 

 The bird hung in the air, the figure below it was as still as stone; it might be stupid and helpless and land-bound, but it knew where steak came from, and seemed not to be dangerous. The eagle landed on the fist, and the idiot creature crooned at it and proffered the steak. The eagle fed.  
 Glorfindel, walking the last of the way up the slope behind the hill, had seen the eagle, but not Pelathrad. Emerging from among the trees he saw the bird feeding, one talon gripping the arm of Pelathrad, and made a small, throat-clearing noise to announce his presence without alarming the bird. Pelathrad did not turn but spoke in a low, steady voice  
 'Greetings, may I request that you make no sudden moves or loud noises, the bird is not friendly.' he paused, then continued 'Well, that is not fair, shall we say, the bird does not like me very much, I will not answer for how it may react to you...' 

Glorfindel walked softly nearer and smiled at Pelathrad, who he knew, both from family acquaintance in childhood, and as a fellow party-spirit. Pelathrad greeted him warmly, and explained what he was doing. Glorfindel quietly clapped his hands together in delight, inspired by the notion as well as the devotion. He could not imagine his own father even thinking of such a scheme, let alone getting up before dawn to train a hostile eagle to bring it about. Glorfindel looked around, the sky was brightening visibly, turning through white to blue, the still air was vast around them, his head was suddenly afloat in the emptiness of the void, the great ship of Arda hanging in nothingness...   
But the eagle looked at him with its contemptuous orange eye and he smiled at it and then at Pelathrad   
'It is not your son whom you honour in this way, it is Manwë himself, and the gesture will be accepted as such by Manwë, who sees all. You could make Ecthelion smile by painting your face like a cat; but you would do him, and Manwë himself, honour, by causing to happen that which all present will take as a sign. But who knows whence came the notion ? Perchance it is a sign, perchance you are the instrument of Manwë and it is at his bidding that you have come here to bring his sign to the Elves.   
 Pelathrad looked wonderingly at Glorfindel, he had never heard him so serious before. A new thought came to him. He reached for more steak and threw the bird into the air. Still as the statue he represented, he spoke to Glorfindel

 'Glorfindel, I know that you are not close to my son, but he has need of someone to confide in. His Mother and I both fear that it is a matter of unrequited love. For perhaps two years now he has been changeable in mood, restless, sleepless and irritable, not at all the demeanour of one engaged in the building of his dreams. We can get nothing from him, we have consulted his friends, but they...' his voice tailed off. Glorfindel snorted softly. The few friends of Ecthelion were famously dour intellectuals who rarely spoke to anyone beyond their circle, attended no parties and never, ever frolicked. It was inconceivable to discuss affairs of the heart with such people, they would produce equations...

 'Perhaps you would dine with us one day, I shall open another bottle of Nectar of Ingwë, and you will get Ecthelion drunk and make him confide in you. ' he turned to smile at Glorfindel 'Everyone knows that you can charm the fish from the sea.'   
 Glorfindel bowed his head and scraped at the ground with one toe, feeling his cheeks redden. 'Ah... alas, I fear that not even I can charm Ecthelion. I met him here a couple of years ago, he thought me an idiot, I am ashamed to admit that I fled him...'   
Pelathrad looked at Glorfindel in surprise 'He thought you an idiot ? Why ? Whatever did you say to him ?'   
Glorfindel told him of the cobwebs and the loom, but Pelathrd smiled 'My dear fellow, he is like that with everyone, he does not mean to be rude, it is merely that his mind is swifter than his manners. Please help me to help him, I feel certain you could make some headway with him after a few glasses of wine...'  
 Glorfindel watched the eagle settle onto the outstretched arm of Pelathrad, the spiky rows of feathers settling into place like fine armour, and he wondered what, after all, Ecthelion was made of. He smiled and looked at Pelathrad 

 'In the name of Manwë, Pelathrad, I would rather work with this eagle every morning than try to induce Ecthelion to confide in me. However, for the sake of the challenge, and your friendship' he grinned mischievously at Pelathrad 'And for the sake of whoever carried the Nectar across the ice... I shall be delighted to dine with you. When would you like me to come ?'  
 Pelathrad frowned, considering the preoccupation of his son with the sculptures he was constructing. 'After the opening of these fountains, he will be easier in his mind, I believe, and more able to turn his mind to other matters...' he said to Glorfindel, who bowed and smiled, and said   
'Truly, I am eager to see the fountains play on his sculptures, is it as I have heard, a statue of each of the Valar ?' 

Pelathrad nodded and looked across the park; tools, and stacks of building materials covered the slope, snaking across the side of the hill down to the island-strewn lake in the valley below. To his amateur eye the scene was of utter disorder, but he had seen Ecthelion at his task, striding purposefully to and fro, his clear voice calling instructions to the hundreds of volunteers who thronged to help. The fountains would be finished in time for the Festival of New Year, the pace of events made his heart beat faster, he smiled suddenly; if he himself was this nervous, it was little wonder that his son was out of sorts. He turned to Glorfindel 'Naturally, I may be entirely mistaken, my son may be merely anxious, understandably, about his work. Nevertheless, dine with us and give us your own opinion.'  
Glorfindel turned from contemplation of the building-site and smiled warmly at Pelathrad   
 'Have no fear, my friend, I will watch while the Nectar of Ingwë does the charming, from me he will get the sympathetic listener for which all lovers long, even if his love is merely of Art !'

 

  
In awe

  
  Warm spring sunshine gilded the highly polished statues, and sparkled in the jewels of the royal party gathered at the hilltop for the formal dedication of the fountains. Ecthelion watched Turgon carefully; the king stood silently, gazing up at the clear glass images of Manwë and Varda. Though not built to the scale of Ilmarin, they were twice the height of the tallest Elf. The clear statues seemed to hover in and out of sight, as the Valar themselves had coalesced into their physical forms as they willed, in faraway Valinor. The arm of the statue of Manwë was outstretched, and a live eagle had perched upon it. Turgon looked at Ecthelion and wondered if he had trained the eagle, but saw only innocent anxiety in the deep blue eyes. He looked to be awaiting Turgon... Turgon recollected himself, and smiled at Ecthelion. With a graceful gesture of the wrist he indicated to Ecthelion that the time had come. Ecthelion turned to his helpers who hurried to open the sluice by the spring and start the water flowing through the fountains.

 Manwë and Varda stood side by side, their nearer hands were upheld, palm to palm, but each held out their other arm, Manwë with the live eagle on his arm. Varda had her palm outstretched as one scattering seeds, or stars, and it was here that the fountain emerged, and fell sparkling into the white marble pool at their feet. From there it tumbled down winding steps to a broad leafy terrace. Glorfindel, on the wide steps by the stream, stared at Ecthelion as though seeing him for the first time. The sage-blue eyes were shining with delight, living flowers crowned the smooth dark hair, the sun caught the high cheekbones and the smooth planes of his face, but it was the expression that arrested Glorfindel, halting his breath, hammering his heart. Ecthelion was certain. Glorfindel had never seen such confidence. If the rest of the statues were as beautiful as the first two, Glorfindel would understand such self-assurance. It made his mouth dry, his stomach churn and his knees weak.   
Turgon and his party were beginning to stroll downhill, Glorfindel knew that it was time for he himself to move, but he could not, he could only stare at Ecthelion, as the seed of love, planted on this very hillside two years before, flowered within him, filling him with a sharp craving to be near his beloved, filling him like the roots of a plant confined in an eathenware pot, devouring all of his being. He wondered at his own ignorance, he was counted wise in such matters, but he had been blind to his own heart. Ever his dreams were haunted by golden Finrod, but the image, so close to his heart for so long, now shone with less heat, the burning agony fading as he bowed to implacable fate. Yet all through his being, creeping unseen into his spirit, the dark presence of Ecthelion had haunted him. The unknown world of the mind, which he had avoided for so long, seemed now a land of unimaginable riches, riches that he had mocked when offered by Erestor, or even Finrod. But here, in these statues, which cast his spirit back to the moment he had fallen before Manwë himself, he knew that Ecthelion had forced him, finally, to acknowledge the purpose and power of learning. His childhood on the farm had left him unmoved by the busy Elves of the city, though his loyalty would have him smile as he fought to defend them. He laughed silently at himself and tried to return his mind to his surroundings. The mountain snow shone on the heights, dazzling the eye as patches of ice caught the morning sunlight. For so long the impassable wall had been as a trap, or cage, to Glorfindel, whose restless spirit had beat in vain against the will of the cautious Turgon. Glorfindel, and many others, had been appalled at the closing of the Valley, fearing stagnation in their isolation. But others spoke darkly of the Words of Doom, and the treachery of kin, and understood the fear of Turgon.

For the first time, in his awe at the artistry of Ecthelion, he saw the beauty that could be shaped in the world by the acts of Elves, and the memory of Ilmarin returned to him. The vision that had been granted him there sprang into focus in his mind as though for the first time. He knew then the helpless fury of the Enemy, trapped in a world with limits imposed by another, as though Gondolin were a miniature copy of Arda, and the Elves themselves like children at play, imitating those with unimaginable powers who ordered their small worlds. But the fountains were a thing of grace and beauty, bringing joy to all who saw them, and the words of Ainulindalë echoed in his mind

"And this habitation might seem a little thing to those who consider only the majesty of the Ainur, and not their terrible sharpness; as who should take the whole field of Arda for the foundation of a pillar and so raise it until the cone of its summit were more bitter than a needle."

He smiled to himself, Ecthelion truly was terribly sharp. "minute precision" he thought. His spirit lightened within him, his restless eyes, ever on the terrible sharpness of the horizon, focused anew on the park, filled with brightly clad Elves, many of whom he knew, and cared for. His heart warmed at the sight; Turgon, with Idril on his arm, was pointing to the eagle with a smile on his often grim face. Even proud Aredhel, in her thick white cloak fashioned from the hide of the monstrous bear she had slain, was smiling at Ecthelion with sparkling eyes.   
Ecthelion... The sage-blue eyes rested on Glorfindel for a moment with a radiant smile. Glorfindel, for the first time in his life, understood the confusion that he had often seen in those whom he himself had smiled at. He felt the warmth rise through him, and managed a fleeting smile, but the procession had passed him, and he turned to follow.

 Glorfindel could barely focus on the rest of the statues; there was Aulë in gleaming steel, Yavanna in oak, Nienna in grey marble, on a small balcony, water foaming round her feet and pouring in a glittering curtain past the entrance to the cavern whence much of the marble had been quarried. Shadowed in the entrance, in polished black granite, sat Námo, and beside him in cream granite was Vairë the weaver. Further along, reclining by a flower-strewn bank, a gold image of Tulkas, his arms behind his head, seemed to watch Nessa, blindingly silver, dancing in the dancing waters, lithe and elegant. There the waters spilled over a final stair to the meadow scattered with fruit trees laden with flowers, apple, cherry, pear, apricot, sloping down to the lake, winding past Irmo, sculpted in clay, painted in colours of elven flesh; the only one of the Vala to look remotely lifelike was the Lord of Dreams. Glorfindel smiled, but shivered inside. How could he, the frivolous Glorfindel, hope to gain the confidence of the creator of these works of art, of engineering, how could he dare to even speak to him ?   
 At the waters edge, in brown marble, stood Oromë, from his horn the waters poured endlessly into the clear lake. Beside him, two mighty graven hounds, one drinking from the lake, the other looking up at Oromë, ears pricked, tail up, ready for anything. Behind him, in pale green marble, his wife Vána, standing among the bright flowers. On the nearest island, in a bower of lilac and honeysuckle, Estë lay asleep, also lifelike, head resting on her folded arms, clad in a robe of grey cloth. But at the feet of Oromë, beneath the waters of the lake, Ulmo lay, his glassy shape casting strange beams of light through the lucid water, baffling the jewel-like fish, his nacreous hair glowing in the sunlight of spring.

Glorfindel shook himself, people were cheering, Ecthelion was being carried on the shoulders of the crowd surging up to the palace, he himself was expected to be there. He doubted his ability to face Ecthelion, not even to congratulate him. In affairs of the heart, he had never before been the suitor. His lovers had all come to him. He had not the slightest notion of how to seduce another. Glorfindel, for the first time in his life, was afraid of what he himself might say. More than that, he was afraid of what he might do. This was Gondolin, the Hidden Kingdom, and there was no departing. Whatever he said or did, everyone would see, everyone would know, there could be no escape from the consequences. He confronted himself, seeking his own blythe courage, but it was futile. For the first time, he would have to catch the eye of another, he would have to court, to seduce. He was baffled, and all those who trailed in his wake, whom he had always found amusing, would now find their own amusement as the aloof Ecthelion scorned his clumsy advances. His mind a whirlwind of wild schemes, he followed the crowd up the hill, astonished that his heart had yet the power to stun him so.

 

 

In the garden

  
Three days after the ceremony, Pelathrad called on Glorfindel, who received him in his quiet walled garden. They sat beneath the blossoming fruit trees sipping wine, Pelathrad looking curiously at Glorfindel, who had kept to his house for the past few days, and now sat in silence, seemingly unaware of Pelathrad, or the goblet in his hands.

Finally Pelathrad said 'What troubles you, my friend ? Not ill tidings ?'   
Glorfindel smiled without turning, then slowly looked at Pelathrad, as though at a stranger. Pelathrad frowned 'Whatever is wrong Glorfindel ? Please do not suffer in silence, perhaps I may be able to help ?'  
 Glorfindel looked steadily at him, his face pale and still, then drained his goblet, and gestured to the page, who refilled it.   
 'Oh Pelathrad, you will laugh at my folly. I am envious of your son, of his genius, of his application, of his industry. I am horribly aware of my own empty, frivolous existence, and embarrassed to show my face until I have achieved something worthy of note. Even now, they gather at my door, not because of who I am or what I have done, for I have done nothing... Nothing !' he cried, and leapt to his feet, striding across the lawn and back, stopping in front of Pelathrad and gazing imploringly at him. Pelathrad, who had raised Ecthelion, knew the look of old.

  'Do sit down' he said placidly, and Glorfindel unthinkingly obeyed. Pelathrad sipped his wine and looked at Glorfindel 'What do you think you ought to have done ?'   
Glorfindel looked at him in astonishment 'Something ! Anything ! Not nothing at all... '  
Pelathrad nodded, 'You are a soldier, an athlete, and a good friend. Those are all something. Each alone is worthy, all three together is excellent. Do you know who I gave this speech to the other day ? Ecthelion.' Glorfindel gaped at him and Pelathrad snorted softly 'It is part of being alive; as the trees strive for light, we strive for excellence. Something as tangible as the fountains, well, they are easy to see and admire. But you are Glorfindel; if you were killed, this city would be diminished, for you bring laughter and happiness to people, you make the parties you attend livelier, you make people sing and dance who otherwise would not. You are a valued member of the community, and if you do not drink your wine and come to my house to dine tonight I will be most disappointed.'

 Glorfindel widened his eyes briefly, then drained his goblet and stood again. He turned away from Pelathrad, hiding his doubt and fear. Ecthelion was fully aware of who he was, and had scarcely troubled to greet him since childhood. The notion that such a great Elf should value a fool such as himself, who had squandered the love of Finrod, was absurd. But his courage drove him on, here was his chance; the very person he most wished to charm, and he had been begged by the very father of Ecthelion to charm him. It must be fate.   
He straightened his shoulders, Pelathrad smiled as Glorfindel shook back the famous golden hair, remembering the shock that had stunned the Elves when Glorfindel, in his grief at the loss of Finrod, had shorn his locks, and answered all questions only with silence. But Glorfindel, feeling the eagerness of one for whom battle is a dance, turned to Pelathrad with gleaming eyes.   
'Very well, lead on, wise counsellor, and I shall work my charm upon the artist.'   
Pelathrad stood and looked approvingly at him.   
 'That is the spirit. Come along then, I know that he will be pleased to see you. He said that he had wanted to ask your opinion of his work at the feast, but that you had merely smiled and shaken his hand. Of course, everyone in Gondolin wanted to shake his hand that night, but he will be delighted at the opportunity to get you alone.' Glorfindel looked down at his feet and set his lips, resolving to merely sip at his wine, otherwise he knew that left alone with Ecthelion, he would simply blurt out his feelings and appal him.

 

In desire

  
Glorfindel found that by sticking to neutral topics, he was able to converse more or less normally with Pelathrad, and to a lesser degree with his wife, who mostly remained quiet, though not as silent as Ecthelion. After a few attempts by Pelathrad to draw Ecthelion into conversations, they had left him to dine in silence, while they chatted idly of the doings of their friends. But his eyes returned ever to those of Ecthelion, the deep sage-blue darkened by the flickering shadows of candlelight, the black at their core widened into pools. Glorfindel felt the once-familiar feathers of arousal touch his skin, but dismissed such thoughts as folly; this was Ecthelion, grave as a statue, not some besotted admirer. Glorfindel laughed with Pelathrad at another merry jest, but his spirit quailed, his own beauty had finally undone him. The adoration he had almost come to expect had left him helpless, he had no notion how to kindle desire; he whose problem had ever been a surfeit of admiration, now finally grasped the pain and heartbreak that he had brought merely by smiling.   
The presence of Ecthelion, silently watching him across the table, seemed to cloud his wits, the long fingers of the hand of Ecthelion, curved round the stem of his goblet, brought vivid images to Glorfindel, images of desire, images of love. The candlelight shone on the smooth dark hair that cast a shadow across the smooth pale brow of Ecthelion, and the wine-red lips gleamed against the pale beauty of his strong-boned face. Glorfindel was astonished that he had not seen before how beautiful Ecthelion was, they had known each other since childhood, yet he felt that a stranger watched him, judged him and found him unworthy. When Ecthelion turned away, the long dark lashes closing like nightfall, Glorfindel writhed within, seeking in desperation for some thought or word to bring those eyes back to his. It was some time before he understood that Ecthelion had truly been watching him as they ate, and a wild hope sprang within him. But the dignity and seriousness of the formidable Ecthelion seemed to be from another world to the life of song, dance and robust humour lived by Glorfindel. He remembered their words of cobwebs and looms, and decided that Ecthelion was merely studying him as he had the spider, not watching him as a suitor.   
But the broad shoulders, the long graceful neck, the strong jaw and cheek warmed by the candlelight, held the gaze of the entranced Glorfindel, in silken strands of desire.

Ecthelion struggled to hold himself steady, his hand threatened to betray him with tremors, his heart raced within him, and every breath must be driven by effort of will. To have Glorfindel brought, however inadvertently, to his own house, to his own table, had staggered him. He had scarcely been able to take in the praise that Glorfindel had poured forth for the fountains, but his kind father had rescued him, assuming him modest, whereas Ecthelion had been almost afloat with pride. The shining beauty of Glorfindel semed too bright for the softly-lit room, the vigour of the muscular body, never still in his chair, but always gesturing as he laughed with Pelathrad, held the eyes of Ecthelion enthralled. To see the eyes of his beloved, glowing with open enthusiasm and turned on him with admiration, was almost painful. The intensity of his feelings drove the few courteous words that he might have uttered completely from his mind. A kind of despairing acceptance settled on him. If he could not speak to Glorfindel even here, in his own house, at a time when Glorfindel was truly pleased to see him and interested in what he would say, then Ecthelion knew that his wild dreams would never come to fruition.   
It was not to be. He had known his love for folly, but had put aside the thought as intolerable. The truth lay heavily on him, but he could not feel the crushing weight. He knew that pain would come, that his calm in the knowledge of despair was brought about by the simple joy he felt at being near Glorfindel, but that all too soon, Glorfindel himself would be gone, and only the despair would remain.  
But to see the golden hair fall about the golden face, to see the eyes turning again and again to his, to see the long golden fingers rest on the polished wood of the table drove his heart to thunder in his breast, and desire burned within him, scattering thought and reason.

 

Finally Pelathrad rose and held his hand out to his wife 'My son, why not show our guest the garden, and the fountain that you built for your mother. '   
Ecthelion rose, and bowed to his parents, who bid Glorfindel farewell and retired. Glorfindel, who had also risen and bowed, turned to look at Ecthelion. Despite the meal and the wine, they were both pale. Glorfindel wondered if Ecthelion was angry   
'Really, you do not have to entertain me, I do not wish to trouble you.' he said nervously. Ecthelion smiled politely   
'Not at all, besides, every artist likes to show off their work. It is only a little garden fountain, you understand, nothing elaborate. Please.' he said, 'Through here.'

The stars were kindling in the deepening sky, a gentle wind rustled the leaves and carried the scents of night-blooming flowers. The lights of the house cast bright arches on the smooth lawn, and dark-winged moths flickered past them into the shadows. An insect called rhythmically from the vine, and Ecthelion stopped, and lifted an arm in a graceful gesture.  
'This was my first piece, I made it for my mother, who pines for the sea.'

The fountain was pale green glass, curved like a wave, but a wave a fathom high, hollow within, the glass reaching over in an arch from which the water fell in a smooth sheet, a living curtain. Glorfindel was delighted, he walked through the spray into the hollow and gazed around him, the glass gave the garden a wavering, underwater air, the echoing hiss of the spray reminded him of the long lost sea, the moisture in the air seemed to soothe him. He sighed happily and stepped back through the water to smile radiantly at Ecthelion, who gasped and leaned against a tree. Glorfindel frowned and leaped forwards to support his weight with a hasty arm thrown around his waist, Ecthelion made a low sound, between a moan and a groan; they turned to look at each other. Eyes of cornflower-blue met eyes of sage-blue, but two pairs of lips, now a mere fingers breadth apart, were drawn together beyond the thought of either.   
 They were still at first, Glorfindel waited to be pushed away, all the time feeling the light and heat of Ecthelion flowing through him, and the desire roaring within himself like a furnace in a gale. But Ecthelion raised his hand and caressed the cheek of Glorfindel, then moved the hand slowly down to the throat of Glorfindel, his calloused thumb stroked the hollow between the tendons, then his hand was buried in the thick golden hair, gripping his neck, pulling him closer. Glorfindel held Ecthelion against the petal-dropping tree and kissed him with all his skill and concentration, all his passion and love, and all of his being.

 Time stopped, Glorfindel felt himself to be stunned into utter stillness, the world, or he himself, had altered beyond all hope of return. He felt at once newborn, but at the same time, more himself than he had for long, lonely centuries. He gazed into the shining eyes and found his knees weakening again. Ecthelion, sensing the slight shift in weight, put his own arm around Glorfindel, and the warmth burned away the last shreds of caution from Glorfindel. Against all his sense and judgement, he spoke  
 'I think that I have fallen in love with you, beautiful Ecthelion, Ecthelion of the Fountains, do you think that you could ever love one so foolish as I ?'

 Ecthelion gaped for a moment, astonished into silence. He blinked rapidly once or twice, and tried to swallow. Here in his very arms was golden Glorfindel, the darling of Gondolin; his first kiss had been with the love of his life, and now Glorfindel himself had uttered the words of love. If Glorfindel had not been holding him, he might have crumpled... His heart was bursting with joy and fear, but more than these, the years of hopeless love rose within him like a great wave of the Ocean, and drowned all thought or reservation.  
 'Oh my beloved Glorfindel ! I have loved you so long that it is beyond me to recall a time when I did not. I will love you forever. '

 Glorfindel searched the shining eyes of Ecthelion , but saw only the love and fear that filled them both. Words and thought dissolved, burned away by the heat of desire, and the heat from the powerful, work-hardened body of Ecthelion, muscles and ribs moving softly under his encircling arm. He knew that this was where he should be, he could feel the world setting around them, like a crystal of ice forming in a night of winter, as though the very mast of Ëa ran right through them, and the world were a solid thing, all of Time already prepared and made, themselves merely patterns running through it like veins in marble. He thought again of the beautiful statues, the lovely fountains sparkling in the sun, and lowered his eyes, how could he hope to deserve the love of one such as Ecthelion... But Ecthelion, amazed at his own daring, lifted his long pale hand and stroked the golden cheek of Glorfindel. Their eyes met again, and then their lips.

                                                             

 

 

 


	25. Excession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orcs attack Brithiach. Celeborn falls under the shadow and is drawn back by Galadriel

  Excession.  

 

 Despite the grey of the sky the clearing was bright with spring flowers, primrose, campion and tall yellow daisies. Celeborn smiled to himself, Galadriel was singing softly, 'Lovely Glorfindel'. He wondered if she had ever heard the rather cruder version that he himself had heard first, then felt sure that she had. He realized that she had noticed his smile  

 'I am pleased to hear you sing again, dear one, though I shall never forgive Glorfindel for being so lovely that you still sing of him.'

 Galadriel smiled 'Forgive me, but the closer we draw to the Inn, the more my thoughts dwell on my brother. For in such... uncertain times I cannot foresee when I shall next meet with Finrod, and this may be our last meeting for...'

 Her voice tailed off, a gust of wind, laden with a scatter of rain, swirled around the clearing, sweeping away the remains of their luncheon, overturning the rug they had dined on, blowing napkins into the trees and covering their eyes with their own hair. There was a hasty scramble to collect themselves, and as they gathered laughing in the middle, Beleg suddenly yelped, then his breath hissed between his teeth. They looked in astonishment at his arm, where a black-fletched arrow still quivered. 

  In the frozen moment, as the blood began to well onto his sleeve, they heard a snarl, a howl and the hiss of a blade through the air. An orc's head dropped, bleeding, onto the path under a tree. 

 Beleg cried 'Ambush !' as they darted for cover, reaching for blade and bow. Celeborn followed Galadriel, who had already drawn her bow, and slid his sword from his sheath. The Elves of Beleg's scouts had already vanished, there was no sign of the orcs save for the bleeding head, the dead eyes still full of terror, the hideous face set in a final grimace of horror. Celeborn felt his skin itching with awareness, he looked a question at Galadriel; these Noldor, these creatures of the Light, had an awareness that he still strived to experience.

 She leaned close and whispered 'There are yet twelve of them, one is above our heads, do you climb in pursuit of him ?' 

 Celeborn sheathed his sword and put his hands to the trunk of the tree; as he climbed, the bow of Galadriel sang a single note and from a nearby tree an orc fell silently, dead from the arrow in his throat. With a scream, the other orcs leaped to the ground and charged towards Galadriel. Celeborn looked anxiously up into the tree, he could just see an armoured boot wrapped around a high branch, but beside him the rabid orcs approached. Galadriel fired again, and as Celeborn hesitated, more arrows sprang silently from the faceless forest, and six more orcs fell. Time seemed to wheel slowly past Celeborn, he drew his sword and turned to face the orcs, crying 'Shoot the one above !' to Galadriel.

 She grinned coldly at him, her eyes narrowed in concentration; he found there was time, in the slow motion world, to notice her shining beauty, focused now into a diamond-tipped spear of deadly intent. She looked up, bending her bow, and Celeborn sprang past her, swinging the great sword, and hewing two orc necks with the first stroke and the backswing. In the next long instant, the last orcs were felled, arrows protruded from their heads like garlands of death. The tree above their heads trembled, its leaves rustling jerkily, as the final orc fell tumbling through the branches.  It landed face up at Celeborn's feet. To his disgust he realized that it was still alive, though the arrow of Galadriel had pierced its chest. He raised his sword to deal the final blow, but the eyes of the orc had focused on him, and its harsh voice croaked his name. 

 'Celeborn ! You live ! I never hoped... I had despaired, forgive me !' 

 Beleg, injured though he was, was already at the side of Celeborn 'You must slay it, my lord, at once. The darkness spreads swiftly.'  But the heart of Celeborn was wrung with pity and grief, the fallen orc had once been an Elf, someone who knew him, perhaps even someone he knew himself. He shook his head and turned to Galadriel 

  'My lady, will you take Beleg and another with you straight to the Inn, while I and these others make certain that we have left none alive.'  Galadriel frowned at Celeborn 'My lord, Beleg has the right of it, slay this creature at once, do not speak with it, the darkness indeed spreads swiftly.' 

  Celeborn bowed his head in silence, but Galadriel knew he would not listen. She nodded, and led Beleg hurriedly away, wondering if even for the wisest of Elves, experience could be the only teacher. She sighed, she would be faced with whatever damage the orc could inflict on her husband, just as she was deepest in grief at the long parting from her brother, her favourite member of the whole sprawling family. Celeborn was so young and so sheltered, he had insisted on joining the escort party to protect her, but she could not bring herself to tell him that his presence merely increased the weight on her shoulders. She sighed, one dying orc could offer little threat.

  Beside her, Beleg looked anxiously at her  'My lady, Finrod will send his elves out to escort your husband to the Inn, do not fear.'

 She smiled at Beleg, 'It is not his life, nor his person, for which I feel concern, it is his spirit. He will speak with the orc, he will be poisoned by rage and grief, and his utter helplessness in the face of the power of the Enemy will darken his heart. He will be blighted, and I shall never again see the innocence of his joy.'  

 Beleg, who had privately worshipped Galadriel since the first moment he saw her, sought words to reassure her. He himself found that it was partly because of the darkness that she had been through that he loved her so much; her sympathy with the pain of others was real, born of genuine understanding, and her smile, when it came, was the richer and sweeter to him because he understood a little of what it cost her. But in his arm the arrowhead shifted, the pain scattered his thoughts and he clenched his teeth to silence the sound of his suffering.

 Celeborn, with one of the scouts guarding his back, stooped over the bleeding orc, while the other scouts scattered to hunt for survivors, or further attackers. In the quiet of the clearing, birds hesitantly resumed their song. The orc had only one eye, the other had been burned away with the brand of another, symbolic eye. But the one eye was grey, the patches of hair on the scarred, burned scalp were dark, and what could be seen of the bones of its face showed the grim ghost of former beauty.

  'Who are you ? What is your name ?' Celeborn asked it, sword still in hand. The distorted face of the orc moved awkwardly, Celeborn realized that it was frowning

 'I am called... ' the voice of the orc was harsh, the Sindar strange and antiquated, Celeborn suddenly knew that it had been centuries since this thing had last spoken to an Elf. 'I am called Redclaws.'  It coughed, and clutched at the arrow, then the scarred grey eye looked up at Celeborn 'But I came from Doriath once, though I forget... I had a name, another name... You were there, we studied the movement of the stars... there were dark-lanterns all of silver...'

 Celeborn looked at the orc in horror, he remembered the lessons, there had generally been a score of the younger ones, and a variety of teachers explaining different aspects of the motion of the stars. But the ruined face of the orc conveyed nothing to him, he had no notion whether it would be someone he could recognize even if the unsullied elf it had once been had stood before him.

  But the orc lay at his feet, in agony. He knew that he should slay it to ease its suffering, but a part of him still desperately hoped to save it, somehow; it was intolerable to him that those who fell into the hands of the Enemy could not be redeemed, even if they were rescued. He thought of Maedhros, who had lost his right hand to the Enemy, yet Fingon had rescued him and now he fought on, his sword in his left hand. Celeborn looked intently at the orc  

 'I would save you yet.' he said.  The ruined face of the orc twisted into a dreadful smile. The Elf at his back hissed angrily,

 'Slay it ! Slay it now !'  

 Celeborn shook his head fiercely 'He remembers me ! How can I slay him ?' 

 'Then stand aside, and I shall do what must be done.'

 'No, I would speak with him further, we should save him !'  

 'This is not Maedhros, this is an orc ! Look at it ! It may have some memories left of the time before it was taken, but the Elf is gone. This creature has submitted to the Enemy, it wears the brand of one of his foulest servants, it has borne arms against us, it has shot Beleg, it has tried to slay you, and the lady Galadriel. Even if it were still of Elvish form, it would be an enemy. You must slay it. Even laying those reasons aside, to prolong suffering in this way is cruel.'  

 The orc snorted, a trickle of blood ran down from the scarred flaps of nostrils  'I live with pain.' it croaked 'The freedom of death draws nigh, the hand of my Master is withdrawn from me.' it looked sadly up at Celeborn 'Your friend sees more clearly than you. The Elf I once was is long gone. This... I have done unspeakable things, worse than the worst of the scars you see upon me now. '

It coughed again. Despite himself, the scout listened with grim fascination. Celeborn spoke swiftly  'Is there anything more of your life in Doriath that you can recall ? There will doubtless be family members who would delight to have word from you.' 

 The scout and the orc cried 'No !' at the same time. 'No...' said the orc softly 'Even should I succeed in remembering my former name, I would not have them learn the true horrors of my fate. Let them continue to believe that I have perished.'  

'But your family, who are they ? Who are you ?'  

The orc laughed 'I am called Redclaws...' it croaked, but the wounded chest heaved as if it would retch, and from the burn-scarred mouth a great gout of blood welled forth. Celeborn looked swiftly into the grey eye, but it had set still; the agony of the orc was ended.

 

 The sound of hard-ridden horses approached, Finrod himself, at the head of a troop of light cavalry. Celeborn cleaned and sheathed his sword, and took a long drink from his flask as the riders approached, seeming to fill the clearing with their Light, enriching the colours of leaf and branch, grass and flower, as though sunlight itself lacked some vital element that only the Elves from Valinor yet carried. He wondered again what the Silmarils must be like, and felt a hint of the disappointment and fury which drove the fanatical Fëanorians.  

 Finrod leaped down from his horse and embraced Celeborn with a laugh 'My sister sent me to rescue you, and though I knew that you would not need my help, I was eager to see you again!' he paused and gestured around him, his troop had mostly vanished into the trees to hunt for traces of the orcs, 'and my people wanted to investigate this ambush, for which I must apologise. The Enemy grows bolder and more cunning, these are the first orcs we have discovered within Brithiach, we must give thought to reinforcements.'

 He sighed and looked at Celeborn, who smiled happily back at him. It had been many long years since last they had met, Finrod was changed, his face was thinner, the skin seemed moulded tightly over the bones, and the shadows of sleepless nights darkened his eyelids and the hollows of his smooth cheeks. There was an intense stillness to him, as one who waits in ambush for his deadly foe. But he smiled warmly at Celeborn and looked around the clearing, the scouts were seeking orcs; they were alone.

  'I would speak with you privately, Celeborn, news has reached me of the love between you and Thranduil, and that you also were separated by our manipulative kin. I...' he paused and sighed 'I would share my grief with one who can understand it, I know of no other who could truly sympathise with me.'  

 Celeborn felt a cold breath of fear, Finrod had had hundreds of years to heal his grief at the separation from Glorfindel, yet he appeared to be enduring a suffering greater even than that of Celeborn, whose wound was still fresh from his anguished parting with Thranduil. He looked fearfully at the haunted face of Finrod 'Do you tell me that the pain grows worse ?'

 Finrod trembled slightly, his eyes filled with tears 'The love has not changed, the memories have not changed, the pain has not changed. Only I am changed. I feel hollowed as a reed, I feel the wind blow through my bones, I feel the howling silence of the void around me, and when I sleep for a brief time, I awaken screaming in the darkness, for he is lost to me, lost beyond hope of returning.'  

 Celeborn winced from the pain of pity, he placed a hand on the shoulder of Finrod and smiled warmly into his eyes 'Galadriel and I are here now, we shall do our best to ease your suffering.'  The patient smile of Finrod stabbed his heart, the despair had taken hold, but Celeborn could see that he was grateful for their presence and their love.

 'Come' said Finrod 'You shall dine with us at the Two Shields, and later we shall drink together until we are singing with tears in our eyes.'

  Finrod himself had built the Inn of the Two Shields, they hung above the wide open doors, side by side, both bearing the harp and torch of Finrod, for both belonged to soldiers of his who had married, and now ran the Inn at the ford of Brithiach, the last safe crossing point of Sirion.  That the Inn also served as the field headquarters for the scouts of Finrod's northern division was a poorly kept secret, but it had been known only among elves until recent times, since scouts of the Enemy had begun to increase in number and brazen defiance. Dwarves used the ford, and the Inn, but paid little heed to the elves, who remained distant from the small grim strangers. There were settlements of Mortals nearby, but these were stout allies of Finrod, who was openly considering making over the Forest of Brithiach to them, pointing out to all listeners that they would slaughter orcs without hesitation, and be a bulwark against the Enemy, for all knew that Sirion was the weak point in the siege wall.

 The Inn itself was a great stone mansion, its walls covered in climbing roses, which formed a living porch over the doors. What little of the grey stone of the building still visible between the profuse roses was speckled with yellowy-grey lichens, for the Two Shields had stood at the ford for hundreds of years; it looked to be a part of the land, as if it had grown there, it made Celeborn feel young, and to look again at Finrod, who had been hundreds of years older than him when there had been nothing by the ford but grass and trees.  

 There was a large fireplace in the vast entrance hall, with seats set into it, against the walls on either side of the small log fire. Galadriel rose to greet them, as the innkeeper hurried forwards bearing a tray of goblets. They took the wine and Galadriel spoke.

 'I have removed the arrow and tended the wound. We could discern no poison, but he will be closely watched tonight. His scouts are with him, I shall return myself presently, but I trust that he will rest tonight, and swiftly recover.'   

 Finrod shook his head 'Please accept my apology, I am responsible for safeguarding these lands, the fault is mine.'

 But Galadriel took his hand in both of hers and looked in his eyes 'Never blame yourself for the deeds of the Enemy. It was not by your order, nor will, that the arrow struck Beleg. As to whether you could have prevented it, you must not think so. He whom we do not name was once one of the Valar, his powers may be diminished but still they are beyond our imagining. You know why Celeborn and I are here, to bid you farewell before we flee, yes, flee into the East, in search of a home beyond his reach, if such a place exists. Melian advised this, and she herself, as you well know, is a Maia, and foresees great shadow, and dark doom ahead. You cannot assign guilt to yourself for the existence of a foe you cannot defeat.' She smiled with grim humour 'It would be presumptuous, my brother, you are only an Elf !'

 Finrod pressed her hands with a warm smile, and drank deeply. Celeborn tasted his wine, it was the favourite of Finrod, from Arvernien in the sun-warmed South, light and sweet, but melting away, leaving a hint of summer fruits behind. Celeborn found himself smiling for the first time, the thought of spending the evening drinking this perfect vintage lifted his heart after the horror of the ambush.

 The innkeeper led them through into an elegant dining room, there was a rug of Noldor blue on the marble floor, and a famous painting of Finwë hung on the wall above the fireplace, which was filled with a broad vase of deep-blue iris. Opposite the fireplace, doors and windows stood wide open onto the terrace overlooking the river. The landlord and his people covered the table with lavish dishes, and left them in peace.

 Celeborn was content to listen as Finrod and Galadriel eagerly exchanged news, but as they began to discuss people he had never met, and places he would never see, he found his mind drifting away. He watched the scattered clouds turn gold and pink as the sun set, and listened to the birdsong. The wine, the marvellous wine of Arvernien, loosened his muscles, he stretched his legs out under the table and leaned back in his chair, glancing at Finrod as he laughed at one of the tales told by the laughing Galadriel, and gazing out at the sky, watching the pale blue sky turn slowly to a deeper violet, and darken into Noldor blue, as the first stars appeared. From time to time the memory of the dying orc troubled his heart, but he pushed it from his thoughts; they had been attacked, they had slain their attackers, merely another skirmish in the long war.

But still, the image floated, not in his eyes, but in his mind, unconsidered, lurking, casting a growing shadow.

Galadriel rose finally and kissed Finrod on the forehead 'I must see to Beleg, do not trouble yourself with him, he will be pleased to see you in the morning when he has had some time to recover.' she smiled at them both 'I know it is useless to say this, but try not to sit here drinking all night...'

 They stood to bid her a sound sleep, then Finrod turned and looked out at the fading light 'Let us walk by the river, Celeborn, we shall take our wine with us, and savour the evening air.'

 Outside, beyond the candles and lanterns, the evening seemed brighter, the trees still green, the river below them rippling like small tense muscles under smooth skin. Sirion was narrower below the ford, cutting deeply into overhanging banks as it moved under the trees of Brithiach.

 They strolled in silence for a while, watching the late insects hover and dart in the still air above the river, listening to the fading of the birdsong, until finally Finrod said quietly    'Now that you are here, I feel as though I had already told you everything, that you already knew and understood' he looked at Celeborn, who shook his head sadly.

 'My lord, sire, I am young and ignorant. All of my short life has been spent in Doriath, where few visitors arrive, and fewer still leave. If you would open your heart to me, I can offer you nothing but sympathy.'

 Finrod sipped his wine and smiled 'It is more than I hoped for, and more than anyone else will give. Since they considered our relationship destructive, they feel that I should be grateful to them, and move on, and marry, like you.'

 Celeborn laughed for a while, then sighed and looked at Finrod 'I have not moved on, sire, I fear that it was only the word of Melian, assuring us that we should be reunited here in Middle-earth, that enabled us to part. I love my lady Galadriel, but alas, I am not in love with her, nor she with me. It is our fortune to be close friends and even lovers, but this is not the choice of my heart. How can I complain, and to you, her brother. You should slay me for such words, yet I perceive that you understand me.'

 'We are close kin, Celeborn, you need not say "sire", you should use my name, especially if we are to confide in each other.'  

 'Thank you Finrod. But I must also remind you that Thranduil and I, although we were friends for our whole lives, only had a month together as lovers, whereas you and Glorfindel were together for twice as long as I have even been alive. I am aware of the great gulf of time between us.'

 'The sapling resembles the tree' said Finrod, taking a deep breath as one who is burdened, who yet takes on a new task.

 'I have had no such promise.' he continued, 'We did not part willingly. I shall never marry, for I could bear the touch of no other hands but his. Galadriel has been urging me again to marry. She tried to tell me of your friend Ivras, but her meaning was unclear to me. Is he some kind of teacher ?'

 Celeborn blushed, but the wine had freed his mind 'Ivras was at Cuiviénen.' he said 'He has been the lover of Beleg, of Daeron the bard...' he paused and looked curiously at the lovely face of Finrod, wondering how he would react to the knowledge that the husband of his sister had a lover. 'He is now my valet, and my lover.'

 Finrod gaped at him for a moment, then looked wistful 'Cuiviénen... such strange tales are told. Are we to believe in these tales ?'

 Celeborn thought of the strangeness of Ivras 'Yes. I suspect that many are true. Ivras is strange, even Melian found him strange. But it is very difficult to speak of him, I do not know why. Beleg may tell you more... ' his voice faltered. He could see the curiosity in the eyes of Finrod, and felt an urgent need to turn their thoughts to other matters. 'But tell me how it came to be that we all believed that you needed to be saved from Glorfindel?'

 Finrod put a hand over his eyes and pulled it slowly down over his face, drawing in a deep breath as he did so. Celeborn drank some wine and thought that he had never seen anyone who looked so completely exhausted. The tale of Miriel Serinde, the first wife of Finwë, the grandfather of Finrod and Galadriel, came to his mind. She was said to have poured all her spirit into the begetting of Fëanor, her only child, and had withered and perished after bearing him. It seemed to Celeborn that Finrod had given all of himself to Glorfindel, and his spirit was thus diminished.

 As Finrod told his story to Celeborn, the night darkened around them, the windows of the Inn glowed with light, and the sound of a flute quietly filled the silence. Celeborn listened to all the talk of chains and possession, but his mind, still under the shadow, kept seeing the dying orc, who had known him, and the words of Finrod seemed to be describing the treatment of the orc.

 But instead of loathing and horror, Finrod's words, his very voice, were filled with a joyous love that Celeborn could feel even through the mists of his confusion, and the blunting wine. The sense of foreboding began to sicken Celeborn, he knew that something was badly wrong, either within himself, or with the world; his stomach clenched as unseen claws tore at his innards, and the ruined face of the orc began to replace the gaunt beauty of Finrod.   Celeborn blinked, his mouth was dry, his skin tightened with fear, he felt lost, dissociate; the Inn seemed to be in flames, the night air full of the screams of the pursued and the ugly noise of orc blades at slaughter. He reeled back, retching, Finrod siezed his arm and helped him to a bench, but Celeborn shook off the comforting hand, dropped his goblet and bowed his head, gripping his hair in both hands. Finrod moved away slightly and looked at him in alarm. Celeborn glanced up, but the face of the orc had fixed itself in his mind, it seemed the only real thing. The pleasant garden of the Inn, the quiet trees, the river, all seemed mere veils, rent to tattered rags by the intolerable power of the Enemy, through which the darkness of the real world could now be plainly seen; the world of suffering and pain, the world of the orc.

 He threw his head back and screamed, his body went rigid, he began to jerk and twitch, his scream distorted by the spasms of his muscles. Finrod put both his arms around Celeborn, who began to thrash, as people hurried out of the Inn to help. Finrod got a hand free, held it over the mouth of Celeborn and cried 'Galadriel !' in a voice pitched for the battlefield. Scouts poured out into the garden, among them Galadriel herself, who hurried to aid her brother Finrod.

 'Celeborn.' said Galadriel in a firm, steady voice. The thrashing of Celeborn diminished, Galadriel laid a hand on his forehead and sang softly. Around her, the Elves were still and silent; as the voice of Galadriel grew and strengthened, the Light within her brightened, and she sang to her husband, whose body became still, and whose scream turned to sobbing as his eyes blinked open and looked up at the anxious faces around him.

 One of the two landlords stepped forward with a silver flagon and poured some miruvor. Galadriel took it and held it to the lips of the weeping Celeborn, who drank it all down. He shuddered, then gripped the bench with his hands and looked up at Galadriel

 'I fear that I have had a vision, a vision of what lies ahead, of this place, in the time to come.' There was a hiss of indrawn breath from the Elves around them, but Celeborn said no more. What could he say that they could not themselves foresee; more orcs, too many to defeat, torment, the slaughter of the scouts and the destruction of the Inn.

The peaceful rustling of the Forest and the constant melody of the river made the wild fury of his reaction seem bizarre and embarrassing, but the Elves were silent. Beyond the little pool of friendly light from the Inn, the forest and the world grew darker, the menace of the Enemy was already among them, Beleg had been wounded within Brithiach, for their watch of the borders had finally failed.

 Galadriel sat by Celeborn and took his hand in hers, it trembled, and she gently stroked the back of it. After a time Celeborn felt able to look at her, but he could not speak, or even smile. She nodded, and continued to stroke his hand; in silence, the elves drifted back into the Inn.  

 When they were alone again, Finrod cautiously moved forwards and sat down on the other side of Celeborn, but remained still and silent. Galadriel gave Celeborn another drink of the miruvor, and then drank some herself. Finally she leaned across Celeborn and passed the goblet to Finrod. Her movement, or the miruvor, seemed to have broken the spell upon Celeborn, he shuddered and sighed heavily, then finally spoke

 'Thank you, my dearest, I cannot believe what you have just done... I had had no conception of your power, please forgive my ignorance. For only moments ago I...' he stopped and frowned 'the world had changed... everything looked the same, but there was horror everywhere, and the void...' he looked desperately into her serene grey eyes, she leaned forwards and kissed his cheek

 'My poor Celeborn, you were under the shadow, surely you know that it is difficult to see in the dark, that the world is without colour, and that many things are hidden, as is much of the beauty of Middle-Earth ?'  

 Celeborn nodded slowly, but still frowned 'But I also saw the future, though it seemed... it was darkness of another kind; for the feeling, my feeling of horror, was of a different nature to the... to the shadow...' his voice tailed off into a harsh whisper.

 They were silent. Galadriel looked at Finrod; she herself had had no visions, there were few who had, but Finrod had been brought such a vision by Ulmo himself. Finrod nodded, and turned to Celeborn

 'I too have seen visions of the future, inspiring me to build Nargothrond and...' he looked sideways at them 'Ulmo sent such a vision to me by Gelion, though I have told none of this. He showed me Glorfindel laughing in a garden, and the garden was set in a fair city, and the fair city was in a fertile valley, where a ring of mountains encircled it, cutting it off from the world. Then the vision changed, and I saw myself by a fire in a forest, lit by a torch, playing my harp and singing. Around the fire were strange creatures, Mortals, as we now know, and the vision ended.

 I knew then that Ulmo himself was trying to tell me that there would be no finding Glorfindel, that my path must take a different course to his, and for the first time I accepted that my search was ended.' he paused and bowed his head, his shoulders sagged and he sighed.

 But Finrod, seeming to burn his own flesh to fuel his will, lifted his head and spoke again 'I realized also that though I had failed in my quest to find him, I could still do something of note, accomplish some worthy deed, and that the finding of the hairy creatures, however odd they appeared, was just such a task.' He sighed and looked away, Celeborn turned to Galadriel, her eyes were grave and sorrowful. He remembered that she too loved Glorfindel, though without hope, and he wondered what she thought of the city surrounded by mountains. But Finrod continued sadly

 'Still, however worthy I may feel, the grief in my heart does not diminish with the passing of time. May the Valar smile on you both, and bring you the child of your hearts ! But I see nothing here, only darkness. It may be that my excessive grief distorts my mind and alters my perception, for I know that you all believe that I love him excessively. Perhaps I do, perhaps some of my spirit has been granted to him... There is no denying that I am weaker than I was before I met him, though in my vision he himself was more beautiful and more radiant than ever. Perhaps...   Perhaps one day we shall be told the answers to these riddles.'

 

 Behind them, the cheerful voice of Beleg caused them to turn swiftly, smiling at him.   'Enough of this morbid orc-talk, sitting in the dark ! Come into the light, drink some wine with me, and you' he said to Finrod 'must eat more, you are excessively thin, you do not look strong enough to play the harp, much less draw the bowstring. I hope you have not been telling horror stories to young Celeborn, I believe I heard him scream.'

 Celeborn smiled and stood up, beside him the children of Finarfin also rose. Beleg, his injured arm bandaged and in a sling, grinned at him.

 'Come along and take some wine with me, youngster, do not let these grim foreigners frighten you; although the thought of marrying one of these mysterious Noldor would be enough to frighten any Sindar.'  

 

              


	26. The Hidden Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orodreth seeks inspiration from an artwork depicting Glorfindel, while struggling with the Fëanorians in Nargothrond.

  
'the hidden paths'

 

  
   Orodreth dived into the smooth water and looked around in delight, it was his favourite part of Nargothrond, this cool, dark lake, buried so long, deep in the bones of Arda, now opened and full of light. He smiled at the memory of the many feasts, festivals, boating games and races, spectacles and performances that had lit up the cavern and filled its vaults with laughter and song.

  The gravel and sand beneath him had levelled onto the plain of smooth glassy rock that formed the floor of the cavern and marbled the walls. Great boulders of varied hue marked the start of the several underwater pathways leading to tunnels, springs, the tavern, the King's Stairs, The Mosaic, and the pool. Orodreth followed the sparkling, many-coloured rocks of the path of The Mosaic, to where the raft was tethered. He hauled himself out of the dark water onto the small deck and lit the lanterns, trying not to look through the panes of glass set into the raft, where Finrod had come when the memories pained him. Orodreth sat to light the candles in the tiny boats, and set them floating away towards the shores of the lake.

  
  When they had spread to his satisfaction, he lowered himself cautiously into the water, careful not to disturb the surface. He gently stretched his ribs, taking in the air, and dove.  
The light of the candles and lanterns shimmered through the clear water, revealing The Mosaic on the level floor of the lake; Glorfindel at Eithel Ivrin, by a gorse bush with flowers of solid gold. The nacreous eyes seemed alive in the wavering light, though the image was twice life-size. Orodreth, who had always secretly considered Glorfindel as the exemplar of an Elf, and the one he himself would most like to have been, found the great size of The Mosaic fitting, for he had ever thought of the tall Glorfindel as a kind of giant. The confidence, eloquence and wit that Glorfindel brought to conversations had dazzled the shy young Orodreth, though not in the romantic way that had won the heart of Finrod. Orodreth did not wish for the love of Glorfindel, but merely for a little of his spirit and vitality.   
 He climbed back onto the raft and watched the ripples set the candles swaying and flickering around him. Finrod had been right, it was an excellent place to be alone, in silence and peace; away from the constant double and treble talk of the courtiers, the snide insinuations of divisiveness, the subtle undermining, the weight that must be accorded to every pause and glance, the nuances of tone and style and pitch...

 His mind reeled, he longed for the simplicity of his youth in Valinor, sitting silently with his mother as she stitched at her embroidery, sometimes volunteering a remark, but customarily at peace. Watching his mother, who would occasionally smile at him, or gazing out of the many windows, dreaming endlessly of the starlit forests of middle-earth, where his great-uncle Elwë had married a maia.

  
  He laughed at himself, he had spent his childhood and youth desperately longing to see the homeland of the elves, to find the legendary Cuiviénen, to see the lands under starlight, to be wild and free as a goat, or leopard, climbing the mountains with no watchful maia or Vala at his shoulder, telling him to stick to the safety of the lower ground.  
  For Orodreth did not lack courage, he lacked words. He had read as much, if not more, than any of his brothers, he had been raised in the same home, had the same teachers, the same friends, but nothing could bring the words to his mind when in company. Even on those occasions when speaking was essential, and Orodreth had prepared his words and knew precisely what he would say, still the uncertainty showed, his fear made him abrupt rather than pleasing, he would find himself frowning, and blush and stammer and return to his seat in the hot silent rage of embarrassment.

  The disillusionment had begun for him before they had even left Valinor, with the burning of the ships. He had almost understood the Kinslaying; everyone had known, as soon as swords were invented, that eventually people would be slain with them. It had not been a question of if fighting would occur, but when. The tension between Fëanor and Fingolfin had exhausted his father, who had despaired of them and returned to Valinor.  
  Orodreth had understood the impatience of anger, though he could not forgive the loss of self-command the Kinslaying had revealeved in the Fëanorians; but the burning of the ships had been cold, calculated malice, serving no purpose other than unwarranted spite, and for the first time in his sheltered life, Orodreth had understood the coldness and hardness of the world, running through the minds and spirits of the Elves as veins of ore in rock.

  
  Middle-earth itself had disappointed him. He had never before appreciated the ceaseless labour of many hands, Vala, maia and elf, working together to maintain the perfection of Valinor. Without them, the world was drab, muddy, grey and cold. The very light dismayed him; the dim remoteness of sun and moon, the seemingly endless bleakness of winter, as though the Enemy had blighted the land already, stripping the trees of leaves, the fields of flowers and the orchards of fruit.  
  Now that his dream of his younger days was realized, he longed with the acuteness of memory for the joyous peace of his home in Valinor.

  
  He cursed himself daily for his folly in pursuing fantasies, rather than plans; his brother Finrod had known exactly what he wanted, and thrived in the new world he was building in Beleriand, despite the loss of his beloved Glorfindel, vanished into the Hidden City of Gondolin. Orodreth missed Glorfindel, and also Turgon, who had always been kind to him, and spent time with him at the many formal events they had been required to attend, seeking him out as Orodreth sought the obscurity of alcoves and corners, away from the crowds and the swiftness of Elven thought and laughter, which bewildered his acute spirit. Turgon, who knew that Orodreth was far wiser than his few words revealed, often found himself defending Orodreth, even in his absence, if the sharper tongues of the many cousins mocked his apparent stupidity.  
  Orodreth sighed, even Finrod had left him, though he himself would have followed Finrod anywhere, even to Thangorodrim. Orodreth felt the blackness of despair for a moment, it had been too long, if Finrod had triumphed he would surely have returned sooner; as the months passed, Orodreth found himself drawn more and more to The Mosaic, as though the mere image of Glorfindel would inspire him with its strength and beauty, as though being in the favourite place of Finrod would make him as mighty as Finrod, beloved by Elves, Dwarves and even Men, going open-eyed into the Shadow.

  But Orodreth clung to hope as to the raft he lay on, the cold darkness of cavern and lake echoed his sense of isolation and powerlessness. The sons of Fëanor were now within his household, undermining him, turning the hearts of the people away from him, even away from Finrod himself, leaving Orodreth to watch helplessly from the sidelines, the shy elf, standing in the corner at the dance.

  Finrod would succeed, he thought desperately, though all the might of the Enemy stood against him. Orodreth had full confidence in Finrod, even though Finrod had made Orodreth himself take up the rule in his stead, which deed in itself almost shook the dreaming mind of Orodreth into awareness of his plight.

  
  But Finrod would return, and lift the burden of apparent command from Orodreth, who had begun to find the Fëanorians insufferable in their arrogance and condescension.   
Orodreth looked at the bright lanterns and smiled, his mother would have encouraged him not to give up hope, his mother had been a great believer in hope; she was very close to his grandmother Indis, who she had described as a living example of hope realized, though it was understandable that Fëanor should resent the loss of his own mother. But none considered it worthy of Fëanor to begrudge his father and Indis their happiness.

  
  The light in the cavern brightened, there came the sound of voices, hushed and sombre, sad tidings apparent even across the waters of the lake. A boat was launched, Orodreth considered swimming to meet them, then wondered if they had even seen him, or had some other destination in mind. But the boat drew closer, revealing Curufin, called The Crafty, sitting in the stern, his face set in a grim expression, watching the rower at work.  
  Orodreth sat up, sighing; apart from agents of the Enemy, there was almost no person in Arda he would less like to see. He nodded at Curufin as the boat drew up to the raft, and Curufin stepped carefully aboard, bearing a small knapsack. He sat, smiled sadly at Orodreth and undid the fastenings of the pack. In silence he handed Orodreth a towel, and unpacked clothes, which he had ready when Orodreth had dried himself. Increasingly embarrassed, as though caught in a compromising situation, Orodreth struggled into his clothes, fumbling at familiar buckles and straps like an unschooled infant.

  But Curufin smiled as he sat down and handed him a glass. Orodreth sipped, it was miruvor, a fine vintage, he could not imagine what Curufin had in his mind, another subtle manoeuvre to gain power, he suspected; for the Fëanorians were at least clear in their aim, though their methods appalled Orodreth at times, and he could not but admire their forthright determination, however little he might share their hope.

  
  What did Curufin intend ? Orodreth looked down through the troubled water at the fair face of Glorfindel, and wondered what Glorfindel would do were he here. The golden-yellow stones of the face seemed to smile as the ripples of light moved over them. Orodreth felt calm and at peace for a moment; Valinor still flourished, he was certain that he would walk there again, that he would see Glorfindel again, that Finrod would soon return.   
He knew what to do.

  He smiled calmly at Curufin and asked levelly  
'Why have you sought me out, Curufin?'

  
  Curufin pursed his lips fleetingly, almost appraisingly, thought Orodreth, but then lowered his eyes. When he looked up, his face was pained, but his eyes seemed to gleam, and there was an intensity to him that troubled Orodreth. Did the Fëanorians intend some dangerous act, or was it merely the gloating of one carrying out a plan with advanced knowledge of success ?

  
  'Alas' said Curufin in a voice which choked Orodreth, for behind the mask that such a one always wore, he could feel the genuine grief in Curufin. Great fear fell on Orodreth, his skin seemed to shrink onto his bones, his heart clenched within him

  
  'Speak, Curufin, what disaster has befallen us ?'  
Tears rose in Curufin's eyes, Orodreth could scarcely breathe, these were the Fëanorians, capable of almost any atrocity, and these were his allies... as for the Enemy... Darkness seemed to surround him, dread filled his mind, he felt icy cold, frozen with nameless fear 

  'Speak, Curufin, I beg you, tell me what ails you ?'

  
   Curufin looked into his eyes   
   'Finrod is dead'.  
  
  



	27. Face The Music.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel helps Tuor adapt to his new life in Gondolin.

Face The Music

 

  
  Turgon's small diplomatic corps had provided Tuor with a fair dwelling on the slopes by the palace, tended by a small staff, who produced raiment and served meals and treated Tuor like a visiting dignitary. Tuor tried not to think of his prior existence, he knew that if he did he would be at risk of hysterical laughter or a destructive rage. He lingered over a solitary lunch, his dining room overlooked an elegant garden, tall poplars lined a shallow decorative pool, paved with gleaming white marble. The memory of the rough cave in which he had dwelt before Voronwë's shipwreck, and the contrast with this gracious house, forced a snort of laughter from him; truly the Music of the Ainur was not within the grasp of a mortal, especially one as ignorant and poorly educated as he himself.

  One of Turgon's servants entered 'Sir, The Lord Glorfindel, Captain of the House of Golden Flowers, waits upon you.'

  Tuor blinked, then translated the formal court speech into a form he could comprehend.  
'Glorfindel is here ? In the house ?' he said, leaping eagerly to his feet. All these weeks in Gondolin, the Elves had been universally kind, he could think of nothing that they had not already provided; and yet, he felt himself to be apart, an outsider, friendless and alone. But Glorfindel knew everyone, any help provided by such a popular figure could transform Tuor's life. Just one introduction, thought Tuor, if I could just make one friend...

  Glorfindel's laughter could be heard before he even entered, and the beaming servant led the darling of Gondolin into the sunlit room.  
'Greetings, Tuor, son of Huor, I am Glorfindel, it is my honour to make your acquaintance, and to apologize for the intrusion.' he held a hand to his chest and bowed. Tuor took a step forward and echoed the gesture

  'On the contrary, the honour is mine, and I thank you for the welcome respite from my own silent company. May I offer you some refreshment ?'  
Glorfindel smiled warmly 'Some fruit juice perhaps ?'  
The servant smiled, bowed and withdrew. Tuor swallowed nervously, his own servants were devoted to Glorfindel, he himself could not help but admire him from afar, there was something glowing to him, it gave Tuor the impression that if he stood close to Glorfindel, he himself would benefit from the radiance. He smiled, gestured to a chair and said 'Will you have a seat ? Or perhaps in the garden ?'

  Glorfindel glanced out of the open doors at the neat, formal garden, smiled briefly and sat opposite Tuor.  
  'I have come to invite you to dine with Ecthelion and I this evening, unless you have a prior engagement ?'  
Tuor pursed his lips 'I had thought of attending the concert the flautists are giving in the park, but I would be delighted to join you both.'

  Glorfindel beamed 'Excellent ! ' he cried 'Our house adjoins the park, we had intended to dine in the garden and surprise you with the mysterious music, but if you already wished to attend, why, that is even better. ' He put his head on one side and looked thoughtfully at Tuor for a moment 'Would you... can I persuade you to come with me at once ? Ecthelion, well, both of us, wish to... we have something to discuss with you...'

  Tuor stood hastily 'Is something the matter ? Have I offended you, or another ?'

  Glorfindel also stood, but smiling 'On the contrary, all is well. Indeed, I am hoping that you will think we are bringing good fortune to you, rather than complaints.'  
Tuor heaved an unsteady sigh, and his tense muscles eased 'My Lord Glorfindel, like all who dwell in fair Gondolin, I have longed for an invitation, of any sort, from you. To be invited to dine with you and Lord Ecthelion, and for "good fortune" exceeds my most fanciful daydream.'  
  Glorfindel smiled delightedly 'Truly, you were raised by Elves. Stars shine upon the hour of our meeting !'

 

  
  
  The house of Glorfindel and Ecthelion charmed Tuor; the doors, which stood wide, had sleek curtains of water on either side, falling smoothly into sparkling culverts which foamed away around the sides of the house. Inlaid into the cream marble walls, a vine of gold flowers wreathed around the doorway. The many windows were open, the spring sunshine glowed on the profusion of flowers spilling forth from the boxes along every window ledge.  
Tuor gazed up with shining eyes, then turned to Glorfindel 'How lovely your home is ! I do not think I have ever been more eager to cross a threshold.'

  
  Glorfindel smiled subtly, but led the way into a courtyard almost overgrown with fruit trees and vines. In the centre a small, solid-gold gorse bush acted as conduit for the water fountaining into the bright air; as Tuor moved forwards a rainbow flickered across the gleaming spray. Tuor sighed happily and beamed at Ecthelion, who had risen to greet him, smiling cautiously. But Glorfindel had seemingly danced across the open space, kissed Ecthelion, and sat down while picking up a goblet, in one swift flowing movement that left even one such as Tuor, who was accustomed to the grace and agility of Elves, breathless. He was relieved to see that even Ecthelion, who had long been used to Glorfindel, looked a little startled. They sat down, and Glorfindel raised his glass 'To friendships, old and new .'

  They smilingly joined him; it was pale white wine mixed with some of the clear sparkling water the miners had discovered in the hills. Though the water was slightly salt, its addition to wine produced a light refreshing drink eminently suited to a spring afternoon. After a while Tuor looked at Ecthelion, the merest hint of a question on his face. Ecthelion blinked and said 'Ah.'

  Glorfindel inhaled, and sat up straight in his chair. They looked at each other, then Glorfindel laughed 'Very well. I know you are right.' he turned to Tuor, frowned briefly, and said

  'Son of Huor, the things I shall say may be construed as offensive. Let me assure you that offence is the very opposite of what I, what we, wish to cause. We wish to help you feel welcome in Gondolin, we would like to offer you a little companionship, a few introductions, some advice on the customs of our city, in short, to guide you while you make your home among us.'

  Tuor gaped, this was hospitality on a scale he had never dared hope for. He looked at Ecthelion, whose face was happy but apprehensive. Tuor turned to Glorfindel 'My Lord I am confused. This is an offer of marvellous generosity and I cannot imagine how it could be considered offensive.'

  Glorfindel nodded slowly 'The offensive words have not yet been uttered...'  
'It is your beard ' blurted Ecthelion suddenly, and blushed, burying his face in his goblet. Glorfindel put a hand over his eyes, then smoothed away his frown. He looked up at the astonished Tuor, whose own hand had rised to touch the smooth pale gold hair on his chin.

  'There is... I have heard a song, in a low tavern, mocking your beard. I am concerned both for the offence caused to you, and for the malice that creates such songs, and is fostered by hearing and singing them. This city, this little kingdom, is closed, there is no leaving here. We must remain in this pool, and strive to keep the water sweet.'

  'I understand, and I thank you for your concern, but what can I do ? The hair has grown on my face since I was nineteen, I cannot prevent it, I am a mortal Man, it is my fate.'

  Ecthelion cleared his throat and stirred in his chair 'Ah, well, that is where I, where we, enter; I think we can help you to blend in, to appear as one of us, in order that people will interact with your mind, rather than your... your...' he paused, but Tuor laughed and said 'My beard ?'

  Glorfindel laughed and drank deeply, then turned to Tuor 'You are not offended ? You will allow us to help you ?'

  'Offended ? I assure you, My Lords, your offer has had the opposite effect to offending me. I am flattered at your attention, touched by your concern, and grateful for all the help you have offered. But I do not see what can be done to prevent my hair from growing, unless there is some Elvish magic or medicine of which I am unaware.'

Glorfindel and Ecthelion looked at each other again; Tuor could almost see them glowing with mutual love. The sight warmed his heart, but left an icy ache; he was trapped among Elves, to whom he was a mere fleeting visitor, the whole of his lifespan would be as but a season to them, there could be no love for him here. He felt cold, that he would never, could never, know the joy which was so apparent in Ecthelion and Glorfindel. But Glorfindel turned to him

  'Neither magic nor medicine, but craft and skill. You are aware that Ecthelion is an accomplished sculptor ?'  
Tuor raised his eyebrows with a smile 'Aware ? King Turgon himself personally conducted me on a tour of the Fountains of the Valar.' he looked at Ecthelion 'I am as astounded as everyone else by the delight of their beauty, the fountains turn the park into a place of wonder.'

  Ecthelion blushed and bowed, Glorfindel laughed 'Raised by Elves...' he said 'And so, Tuor, we would remove your beard with sharp blades.'  
There was a short silence. But Tuor was young, brave and eager to fit in, and he trusted completely the skill of Ecthelion's hands. He glanced down at the long strong fingers holding up Ecthelion's goblet, and thought briefly of what those hands could do. His eyes met those of Ecthelion and he nodded silently. Glorfindel sprang to his feet 'Excellent !' he cried 'Let us do this thing at once !'

  
  Following behind him, Ecthelion turned to Tuor and said softly 'Thank you for humouring him; as you say, the hair will grow back, you may choose at any time to return to your, ah, natural appearance. Having said that, if you wish to remain beardless, I fear that we shall have to remove the hair frequently, though I do not know the pace of growth of the hair of mortals. '

  Tuor looked perturbed 'But My Lord, I cannot put you to all this trouble, really, its...' But Ecthelion held up his hand 'It is not "trouble", it is interesting, in many ways. I am personally interested because my love is concerned about you, and the effect of your presence. I am personally curious to see how people react to you looking like an elf. And I am most interested of all in the actual physical task of removing your hair without cutting up, or off, your face.'

  Tuor looked at him with wide-open eyes, and swallowed nervously. Ecthelion grinned darkly then laughed 'Have no fear, my friend, I have very steady hands, and much skill at carving.'

  Tuor nodded gratefully and followed him into an airy bathroom.  
The bath was sunken, the tiles and the steps, like the main door, were inlaid with gold flowers. Three gold sprays of flowers hung from the white marble ceiling. Glorfindel moved a golden handle and a shower of water cascaded from the sculpted flowers 'Look Tuor, look what Ecthelion made for us, three of these indoor fountains, one runs cold, one runs hot, and one is warm enough to stand under for a long time. They are marvellously refreshing, I hope you will try them.'  
Ecthelion laughed dryly 'When we have removed his beard, he will be forced to try them, he will be covered in his own hair. Indeed, I anticipate that this whole room will be covered in small pieces of hair. Fortunately' he leaned up and twisted the golden flowers, the spray could be moved to aim anywhere 'this room can be easily cleaned.'

  They led the gaping Tuor to a seat, wrapped a thick towel around his shoulders and Ecthelion stood in front of him, looking seriously at him  
'This is your own wish ? To look like one of us ?'

  Tuor nodded 'Oh yes, to not feel like an outsider, well, I would sacrifice more than a little hair.'  
Ecthelion lowered his eyelids and nodded, then, his hands moving faster than Tuor could see from such an awkward angle, began to trim the fine hair. Glorfindel stood watching, fascinated. Ecthelion never let him see him at work, arguing, rightly, Glorfindel grinned to himself, that Glorfindel would interrupt him constantly. But with the blade so close to the throat of Tuor, even the impulsive Glorfindel was still and silent. Finally Ecthelion straightened and looked at Glorfindel.

  'Foam ? Are you sure ?' said Glorfindel

  Ecthelion nodded 'I do understand what you mean about grease, but I think the hair must be cut as swiftly as possible, and that foam will not slow the passage of the blade.'

  Glorfindel smiled 'Of course, you are the learned one, how can I dispute ?'  
Ecthelion laughed 'How can you restrain yourself ?' And Glorfindel's lips twisted as he considered a reply. Tuor smiled, warmed by their love; he felt at home with them as he had not felt since he was a child, and delighted by their playful teasing. Glorfindel was adding water to a bowl and swiftly stirring the contents with a finger-sized paint brush. Tuor wondered if this was the foam; Ecthelion caught his frown

  'It is merely soap, but Glorfindel will render it into a thick creamy foam, which will allow the blade to pass close to your skin, removing the hair as close to the roots as possible while avoiding damaging the skin. I urge you not to cry out, should I make a mistake and draw blood. It will be immediately apparent to me should this happen, and a hasty motion on your part could be, ah, damaging...'

  Tuor nodded as Glorfindel held the bowl out, he offered it to Tuor to examine, the white foam smelled of mint. 'It looks like the sort of thing they eat for dessert up at the palace' said Tuor  
'Do not eat the soap, it will taste foul.' said Ecthelion, taking the bowl from Glorfindel, who grinned at Tuor  
'He is always so serious. I do try to bring some frivolity into his life...'

  
  Ecthelion put a hand on Tuor's shoulder 'Sit up straight, and remain still. ' he said, looking earnestly into the eyes of Tuor, who nodded and obeyed. Ecthelion painted the foam onto the now short, fair hairs of Tuor's cheeks and chin, then handed the bowl back to Glorfindel, who put it aside and picked up another, from which steam arose.  
But Ecthelion, with one last look into Tuor's eyes, began to draw the blade carefully through the foam, dipping the blade into Glorfindel's bowl between each stroke. It was surprisingly swift and painless, Tuor letting his head be tilted this way and that, or stretching his skin to allow the blade to pass. Finally Glorfindel handed Tuor a damp cloth and he stood up, wiping his face. When he trurned to face them, they both gaped at him in astonishment. Ecthelion took a step backwards, but Glorfindel said slowly, under his breath 'Eru Ilúvatar...'

  Tuor looked anxiously from one to the other 'Please, tell me what the matter is ? Has something gone wrong ?' They seemed not to hear him. Finally Ecthelion spoke, as one in a dream, to Glorfindel, but his eyes did not leave the face of Tuor 'He is even more beautiful than you are.'

  Glorfindel nodded slowly, he too gazed at Tuor, his eyes wide 'I can see him. By the Valar, Gondolin will not know what has hit it! ' he laughed 'This will make them sing a different song !'

 

 

  
  On the morning following the first removal of his beard, Tuor awoke and looked into the mirror. He was dismayed at the rapid growth on his face, fine gold hairs had sprouted overnight, and though to mortal eyes the pale fuzz could barely be seen, to the keen eyes of the elves around him he would appear grotesque. He frowned, bathed hastily and hurried back to the house of Glorfindel and Ecthelion.  
  
  He was led to where they were taking breakfast in their garden, they invited him to join them and he took a seat at the petal-strewn table, smiling at his petal-strewn friends. Even as they exchanged greetings, a gust of warm air lifted the branches of the trees and scattered another flurry of petals; Tuor smiled, he was already blending in.  
But Ecthelion looked closely at him and said 'May I ?' and touched his chin 'Alas, I feared it would be so.' he said to Glorfindel 'Are you certain ?'

  Glorfindel, his eyes fixed on Tuor, nodded. 'We began this thing, we must hold to our purpose. Furthermore, I feel that showing the world this hidden beauty may be the only artistic accomplishment of which I am capable, and we have... we have time.'  
There was a moment of silence, once again Tuor felt himself to be a mere phantasm, a transient, a meteor, burning brightly for a moment among these steadily shining stars. But Glorfindel was smiling warmly at him

  'Tuor, son of Huor, we should like to extend our hospitality to you, our house is large, we would enjoy your company, especially I, and Ecthelion is happy with anything that keeps me from disturbing his work. Will you join us here, for as long as you wish ? Besides, you will surely be delighted to leave that cold, drab, official residence that Turgon has left you in. '  
  
  Tuor found it hard to swallow, the generosity of the offer overwhelmed him, and the eager, half-hopeful expression on Glorfindel's face wrung his heart. His eyes stung, for the first time since his capture long years before, he was afraid he would weep. Glorfindel smiled at him

  'A mere nod will suffice. You have endured hardship and torment that even we who crossed the ice can barely imagine. I hope you will feel comfortable here, and able to dance or weep as your mood requires, for if not, we shall feel inadequate as hosts. You may reserve your fine manners for the feast tonight at the Table of Turgon, we here are less formal, for I am merely a soldier, and Ecthelion, though also a soldier, is an engineer and an artist, who barely has time to be polite to me, let alone bother about courtly ritual. '   
  
  Ecthelion laughed indulgently and threw a flower at Glorfindel, who plucked it from the air and handed it to Tuor with a smile. Ecthelion turned to Tuor and spoke seriously  
'Glorfindel is not so foolish as he would have you believe, ignore his jesting way. Our offer is sincere; we both like you, we admire your courage and enjoy your company. And I would help you maintain your smooth face, simply as an artist, regardless of my friendship for you.'  
  
  Hearing the word 'friendship' from Ecthelion removed the last of Tuor's hesitation. He had been so long alone, in so many different ways, as an orphan, as a mortal among Elves, in his thralldom, after his escape, and even now, surrounded by charming Elves, offered everything but friendship, he had been alone. Hope was almost painful, like the sting of frozen fingers suddenly bathed in warm water. He was no longer in danger, and no longer lonely. He smiled at them both, and to his shame found that tears had spilled from his eyes. Glorfindel leaped lightly to his feet and folded Tuor into a friendly hug  
'You are with friends now, Tuor, you are safe, we will be here for you for as long as you have need of us.'

 Tuor wrapped his arms around Glorfindel and laid his head upon his chest, and Glorfindel felt a little of the tension ease from the rigidly taut muscles of Tuor. He looked at Ecthelion over the pale gold hair by his chin, and understanding passed between them. The hairs of Tuor's face might grow rapidly, but the scars inflicted upon him by the Enemy would take time and patience to heal again.  
  Under the fading sky of evening they led Tuor up the broad steps to dine at the Table of Turgon. Ecthelion had smoothed Tuor's face, then Glorfindel had arrayed him in the colours of the sea, worthy of a messenger of Ulmo. He strode up the stairs between them, tall and strong, the most beautiful of mortals, lovelier than any elf in Gondolin, even, drawing the gaze of every eye, a silence seemed to follow them. But they did not turn.

  Within the hall the silence preceded them, the musicians faltered and paused, conversations stuttered out, until the room was still. Turgon rose to his feet, and the rest of the elves followed suit. Glorfindel led Tuor to the dais and presented him to the wide-eyed Turgon

  'The craft of Ecthelion has enabled Tuor to appear as one of us. Indeed, we have taken Tuor into our household; he is now truly one of us.'  
Turgon gazed at Tuor, smiled and inclined his head to Glorfindel, then spoke to Ecthelion

  'It seems you are able to discover hidden beauty as well as create your own. My admiration of your mind and hand grows daily. You have my congratulations, and my gratitude for your hospitality. Thank you Ecthelion.'  
  
  Ecthelion bowed 'It is not I who should be thanked, Glorfindel became aware of the problem and proposed the solution. I merely dealt with the trivial practical problems.'

  
A pale blue cloth covered the long table, around it, richly-clad elves dined and drank.

  Tuor felt their eyes upon him, his jaw clenched, he was still troubled by stares, after his torment in captivity. But his eyes were held by the princess Idril, whom he had admired from afar, as one who might wish to sail the path of the moon. Now her eyes were fixed on his, she seemed to be searching, questioning him. He gazed steadily at her, she was as lovely as a flower, delicate and fair, her golden hair flowed loose over her shoulders, her long gown of deep, shimmering, blue was hemmed with fine embroidery, studded with sparkling gems. Tuor wondered if he would ever be permitted, or even dare, to speak with her. But Turgon was gesturing Glorfindel and Ecthelion to their seats on the dais, while he held up a hand slightly to Tuor, to wait. Turgon looked around the room, but every Elf at every table was already silent and raptly attentive.

  'My friends, my family, you all know who this is, Tuor, son of the brave and much lamented Huor, to whom I owe my life. Now that we see him as if he were one of us, I realize how ungracious and inhospitable I have been, and I am grateful to Glorfindel for his help. I, and many of you here, owe my life to Huor, and in his honour, and in honour of the courage and spirit of his son, I name Tuor foster-son to me, and take him under my personal protection. Let all here bear witness !'

  
  There was cheering from the assembled elves, Glorfindel blushed with pride as Tuor was led to sit at Turgon's side, while Maeglin was moved to the other side of Idril. Glorfindel noted Maeglin's gritted teeth and pale skin, but smiled to himself, Tuor was a mortal, and would soon vanish into death, like all mortals. How could it matter where Turgon seated him       So brief was his existence that he could do little to alter the world.

  
  Idril was trying to control the beating of her heart, sipping wine to conceal her face. The whirlwind of image and thought engulfing her mind seemed to move at frenetic mortal pace, rather than the gentler airs of the elves. Already she felt as though a great chord of The Music of the Ainur had sounded, and unfurled her heart like the sun on a frond of fern. Already she knew that Tuor was her love, that they would marry, and that she would have to endure the rest of time alone when he died. She knew the pain that lay ahead of her, but as her eyes rested on his perfect features, and felt the fascination of his eyes on hers, she knew that she would love him, and he would love her, and all other purposes or concerns were as nothing to the great towering tree of their love.

   She blinked, mere moments had passed, her father was still settling into his chair, she had not even spoken with the mortal. With Tuor... She thought his name and smiled, she knew she would always remember this moment, whatever befell them, the first time she had thought his name. She looked past her father, and found the pale blue eyes of Tuor staring into her own. She smiled, Glorfindel had dressed him to emphasize the colours of the sea, and Tuor's pale eyes were as holes in a canopy through which the sky could be seen, she had the strangest sensation that they were aboard a ship, she thought with joy of all the time they would spend together, watching the world in each others eyes.

Turgon came between them like a falling tree, leaning forward to pick up his goblet, and Idril collected herself and turned to the laden table to dine. She restrained herself as long as she could, but soon her eyes were drawn to the mortal, and his eyes were there, waiting. He smiled happily at her, causing her heart to fill with joy, it was not like a meeting, it was like a homecoming, the return of one thought lost.  
But Turgon was addressing Tuor, and reluctantly his gaze was torn away. Idril returned to pick at the delicacies on her plate, the thought of eating seemed baffling and strange; she sipped at her wine. Tuor ate swiftly and heartily, hunched over his plate, listening to Turgon and nodding occasionally, scarcely pausing between mouthfuls.

Beside her, Maeglin cleared his throat 'By the Valar, he may be beautiful, but what atrocious table manners !' he said. Idril blinked in disbelief, then turned to look at him in astonishment   
'Table manners ? Is that the weight in the scales of your mind ? Table manners ? ' She looked coldly at Maeglin, feeling for the first time an active distrust, almost a dislike of him. 'You are familiar with his story, he has lived in caves, or as a slave, all his life. How could he have learned table manners ? Besides, you are being surprisingly parochial for one who was raised in a house in the woods of Nan Elmoth. Table manners, as you well know, vary from place to place, and even a guest who wishes to adopt the customs of their host may take time to adjust. But most of all, I would expect that you, who were once a stranger here yourself, would have more sympathy and understanding of the plight of a newcomer. Table manners !' she snorted derisively, and turned away.


	28. Amon-sûl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn is stunned to learn his true name, and rides out with Glorfindel.

Amon-sûl. 

 

 Estel almost staggered as he left the study of Elrond. He knew of the missing heir of Elendil, it was one of his favourite tales; he had often imagined himself, called to the aid of the mighty prince, winning glory for his valour and praise from his hero. As a child he had made the others join in, the twins would smile at him in an infuriating way, that drove him on to feats of reckless courage.  
 But always, the sombre Elrond would lead him back to the library, to the books and the scrolls until his eyes swam and his head ached, and he had long been convinced that he was to serve the prince merely as a counsellor or scholar. His restless heart had chafed at such a notion, the wild wood called him as a dear friend, he had eagerly accepted every invitation to ride out, and been discreetly encouraged by the swan-like Glorfindel. He smiled at the thought of Glorfindel, his best friend in Imladris, whose polished smile and manner hid a heart as wild as that of Estel himself, and their escapades together formed the chief treasures of his memory.  
 He stopped before the statue on the porch, where the shards of Narsil were displayed. His mind reeled, he gripped the carven shield with both hands, shaking his head slowly, his mouth forming silent words of disbelief. His eye rested on the ring, the jewelled eyes of the serpents glittered coldly, implacable as the fate of all who had worn it. A cold tremor ran through him, he felt the remoteness of the distant past anew, not as a bed on which he lay, but as an unfathomable black ocean, he yearned to reach deep into time and truly know his mighty forebears.

 Glorfindel entered the courtyard, shining like moonlight, and his bright blue eyes looked up with a kindly smile. Estel gripped the stone harder.  
 'You knew...'  
Glorfindel smiled, and took the stairs two at a time. Estel felt that he had never seen such magnificent power before, but then the whole world had changed, he felt indeed that he had never seen even himself before.  
 'Of course I knew. But few others did. The members of the Council, the closest friends of Lord Elrond...'  
 'And the twins ?'  
 Glorfindel nodded 'If you are not aware of the friendship between Elrond and his sons, I cannot explain it to you...'  
 'No, I mean, yes, of course they are close. But Glorfindel, I am... I am astounded...'  
Glorfindel smiled 'Will you ride with me ? There is somewhat that I would show to you.'

They were riding over the rim of Imladris before Estel had recovered his composure. Glorfindel, as silent as a stone when necessary, had not troubled him with questions or conversation. But Estel found his mind reeling. It was enough that he had been told his real name, and learned the fate of his father. To discover that his father had been Arathorn himself, that his own name was Aragorn, rather than humble Estel, had shaken him to the roots of his being. His heart churned, his mind was a whirlwind, but his spirit seemed to soar from the Valley like a released bird. Without thought he urged his horse on, until they were galloping over the open moor, scattering birds and rabbits, blowing the golden hair of Glorfindel like a thrown torch, and lifting the cobwebs of knowledge from the eyes of Estel.   
 Aragorn, he thought. I am Aragorn.   
He laughed then, as wild as the moor, and pressed his heels into the sides of the horse, whispering encouragement into the flung-back ears. The turf flew up around them, the horse stretched its neck and seemed to fly throught the air, but Glorfindel was there, riding wildly at his side, though he turned to shout to Aragorn   
 'Estel ! Please, 'ware the horses !'.   
Estel loosened his hold on the reins and the gasping horse slowed to a canter, then to a walk. A shock ran through him, a fall into cold water. Childhood was ended, he must put aside his toys and face the world, as a Man. He sucked in the fresh clean air of the moor and thought of his mother. Her secretive smile rose before him, and he nodded slowly, then straightened his shoulders. He would lay aside the name of the child he had been, as he laid aside his ignorance. Estel was no more.

 Aragorn stroked the gleaming neck, frowning at himself; he was the heir of mighty kings, and his very first act had been to cruelly mistreat an animal, a creature he was very fond of. He hung his head, he was not worthy of the name Aragorn, he would renounce his title, and settle to his books, and become the scholar that Elrond had worked so hard to mould. 

 Glorfindel, with the intolerable patience of the immortal, had said nothing as they rode, nor by the fire at night. The songs he sang were all of natural things, of the buds in spring, or the first butterfly, or the light of stars on falling water. He made no mention of what he would show Aragorn, who in his stubborn pride would ask no questions. Riding gently, they came at length to the great hill of Amon-sûl, towering over the wilderness, a lone sentinel. After tending the horses, Glorfindel had washed his hands and looked at Aragorn as one who has a gift to give.  
 'Will you climb with me, Aragorn son of Arathorn ?' 

The view from the top was so vast that Aragorn had to grip the broken stone with both hands to remain steady. He had been penned in the Valley too long, the size of the sky seemed to weigh upon him, the vigour of the wind swayed him and whipped his hair. The Road, scarcely  bending in its path at their feet, vanished into the distance on either hand, and all around them, the trackless wilderness lay, its summer green scattered with golden clusters of gorse.  
 'This is your realm.' said Glorfindel.

By the fire, with the soothing chirp of crickets breaking the stillness, Aragorn felt finally able to speak. But the questions he would ask did not concern himself or his purpose.  
 'Are you truly that Glorfindel who slew the Balrog ?'  
Glorfindel winced slightly, but smiled, and nodded slowly. Aragorn shook his head   
 'To return from death... It is so strange...'  
Glorfindel shrugged, 'I am not the one to question on such matters, they are not my concern. But these questions will be found in your books of lore, and Elrond himself, who has a keen personal interest, will talk at length on the fates of the Children. But you know this...'  
 Aragorn nodded 'I know the words that I have read, but to know you is another matter, it is the difference between seeing a map and seeing the country from a high place.'  
 Glorfindel smiled, but there was a remoteness in his face, as memories rose to haunt him. Behind the golden hair the night was black, the thin moon had set, and cloud had covered the stars. The cool air was damp with dew and blue with smoke, the solitude of the wild was about them, steeper than the cliffs of Imladris. Aragorn frowned, then spoke again

 'But why did you return, why are you here ? Who... Was there someone special who drew you back ?'  
 Glorfindel smiled 'My tale is as long as that of any other Elf, some would say longer. But I was sent here, by the command of Manwë, to watch the Road to the sea, to stand guard over the escape of the Eldar to Valinor. I shall leave with Círdan on the Last Ship.'  
Aragorn was silent for a while, he thought of the long life of Glorfindel, who rode alone, up and down the Road, with only memories for company. Pity and love rose within him.  
 'Oh let me help you Glorfindel ! I could ride with you, I am a good scout, and a good shot, and I could at least keep you company !'  
 Glorfindel suppressed a smile, but nodded 'So shall it be, for a time, though there is another whom you have yet to meet, and whose company you will prefer to mine. He is called Mithrandir, great among the wise, and the roads watched over by him are unknown even to I. You will find my little post as dull as your lessons long before I tire of your company !'

 Aragorn looked with wide eyes at Glorfindel, the idea that he could ever tire of his childhood hero seemed absurd. But even as the thought rose to expression, he remembered the strange tales concerning Mithrandir, and his restless curiosity was fired to wild speculation on the lands to East, and South. But his lessons with Elrond had not been entirely vain, he watched his breathing, focused his mind, and looked with narrow eyes at Glorfindel.  
 'You must have known... You must have known Turgon, at least...'  
Glorfindel laughed 'Ancestors ! Yes, I knew them all, the Noldor princes of the First Age. You remind me most of Finwë, though you are young yet for your kind, and will change into maturity. I must admit to personal curiosity as to which of your ancestors your full-grown face will most  resemble.'

 Aragorn gaped at him, the names of characters so mythical that compared to them even the legendary Elendil seemed a mere recent upstart, sat lightly on the tongue of the Elf. Glorfindel was cross-legged by the fire, his goblet resting between his fingertips, balanced on a knee, watching him carefully. Aragorn stared into the fire in silence, listening to the crackle of wood and the wind in the grass. Doubts began to trouble him. The thought of taking up the work of Glorfindel when the Elves were gone seemed appalling, after a childhood in Imladris. He imagined his thoughts fading like autumn trees, deprived of light and air, food and drink, withering in the cold... He looked up sharply at Glorfindel 'This burden is too great for me to bear ! I am Mortal, not some shining Elf fresh from Valinor ! I cannot take your place !'  
 Glorfindel lowered his eyelids slightly 'You will not be expected to work alone. Your people, far to the North, have ever been my staunch allies, and often take to the Road at my side. But for now, you may ride with me as apprentice to my craft, and I shall attempt to teach you the skills of a scout, as Finrod himself taught them to me. You have learned much in Imladris, else you would not be here in such peril, for the servants of the Enemy do not sleep. You have risen to the challenge, son of Arathorn, and our hopes in you grow with each day. Indeed I feel a stirring in the air as I have not felt in long years of uneasy peace. A fresh wind blows from the West, Dúnadan, and you must ride it !'

 There was a silence, then Aragorn smiled 'Do I really look like Finwë ? I have seen paintings of him...'  
 But Glorfindel snorted 'No paintings of Finwë survived the Flood. Nor any great artist who knew him. They asked Lindir to describe him accurately...' He began to laugh, and Aragorn joined in, for Lindir was a great mathematician, and a prominent theorist of music, but his drawing skills had been compared to the work of one addled from wine. Still half-laughing, Glorfindel shook his head   
 'No, you have seen no paintings of him. We have said nothing, for what would be the purpose ? Those who were born too late to meet him will see...' he faltered into silence and frowned.  
 'Forgive me, Lord Aragorn, I had forgotten that you are Mortal, and that our paths are sundered.'  
 But Aragorn smiled 'No, dear friend, your words bring joy to my heart. That one so ever-watchful as yourself could mistake me for one of your own kind is a great honour to me, and I shall treasure the memory on whatever path I take !'  
 Glorfindel put out a hand and Aragorn gripped it in his own for a moment, and felt an uplifting of his spirit and a lightening in his heart, as though some power had flowed from Glorfindel to him, passed from hand to hand like the torch in a race.   
 'Thank you, Glorfindel, my ancestors, in their glory, have laid a great burden upon my shoulders, but with your skill, and the wisdom of Elrond to guide me, I hope that I may prove worthy.'

 Glorfindel raised his goblet to Aragorn, and put wood on the fire.   
 'I shall tell you tales of your mighty ancestors until you fall asleep, Mortal. But consider always in your thought and word and deed, how you yourself would be remembered in song. For I have known many of your kin, Aragorn, and this I know clearly, that the lives of Mortals continue, as they become songs, that they live on in the hearts of all who would aspire to their glory. For you will become, in the remote future, an ancestor to your unborn kin, and you must hope that the name Aragorn will echo with pride, as they now call the name of Elendil.'

 


	29. Written In Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel speaks to Aragorn of Húrin.

  
        Written In Blood

  
Some days after the marriage of Aragorn and Arwen, Glorfindel sought out Aragorn, and led him out onto the high terrace. They sat on a carved stone bench and looked out over the sunlit vale of Anduin. The river sparkled, craft of all sizes moved through the water, and everywhere the colours of the King fluttered and snapped in the fresh breeze. A page came after them and held a tray out, they took a goblet each and the page bowed and left them.   
 Glorfindel held up his goblet, the stem was of mithril, wrought as a tree, the bowl held by the wreathing branches. The juice of crushed rasperries made the glass glow in the bright morning light. He sipped and smiled, the highlands were marvellous for raspberries, that subtle, smoky, woodland taste that was missing from the sweeter fruits of the south.

 'Speak, Glorfindel ! Even now, with everything that I have ever wanted mine at last, you still make me anxious. What have you to say to me ?'   
Glorfindel looked at him with a brief smile and then sighed as one who braces themself for an unpleasant task. 'Have no fear, my old friend, I see no clouds on the horizon. It is the past of which I wish to speak. There is a detail, an untold story, written in no book nor scroll of lore in all the libraries of Imladris.'

Aragorn opened his mouth then closed it again and looked seriously at Glorfindel. Glorfindel stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles and sighed again 'It concerns Húrin, and Turgon. It  was in the time when the Enemy released Húrin, to savour Húrin's anguish, that Húrin made his way to Gondolin. But the gate was broken and sealed and none answered the pleas of the desperate Húrin.  
  The eagles came to Turgon offering to bear Húrin to the city, but the heart of Turgon was cold with dread and distrust and he would not permit the rescue. I was there.' 

 Glorfindel shifted, then drew his legs back and leaned his elbows on his knees, staring back across the abyss of time. 'I was there and I did nothing for Húrin, who saved my Lord Turgon at the Fen of Serech.   
 And Húrin screamed and cursed us and beat upon the grim rock wall in the cold grey desolation but no help came.   
 No help came.   
 Húrin then built a great fire, and prepared charcoal and strove to write his curses on the sheer  face of the cliff. But the rock was smooth as polished marble and his charcoal left no trace.   
 He laughed then, fey and fearful laughter, and tears unnoticed soaked into his thin grey beard.' 

 Glorfindel paused and looked down at the stone slabs beneath his feet 'So Húrin sharpened his dagger, opened his vein and wrote on the stone with his own blood.'

  Aragorn was silent for a while, then finally, his voice hoarse and hesitant, he asked 'What...what did he write ?'

 Glorfindel turned and looked sombrely at Aragorn 'His own name. In his own blood.' He sighed again. 'I know it is only a detail, but such a- such an anguished cry deserves to be heard. Turgon, as you will know, is the great-grandfather of Lord Elrond. And Húrin is his great uncle.

 I have never asked him about this, nor was it I who gave him the news. But now that your blood will be joined with theirs, it is best that you know what is written there.'


	30. The Last Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel on the last ship

The Last Ship.-   
Frodo had found a (to him) vast coil of pale grey rope in a quiet, sunny corner of the deck; the perfect place to doze after a particularly hearty luncheon with the elves. He woke slowly, someone had covered him with an elven cloak, and Galadriel was passing him, unseeing, heading to the prow where Glorfindel stood, gripping the railing and staring forwards as though his will could drag the ship faster through the starlit water.  
He had been there since the grey ship had left the Havens, and now Galadriel softly spoke his name. Glorfindel made no motion, Galadriel put her hand on his shoulder and said

 'You must rest, my old friend, you must eat. You know that he is waiting, you know that the captain is sailing as close to the wind as the sail can endure, you know that there is nothing yet to see. Please, come into the feast and join us.' Frodo peered into the gloom; elves might see by starlight, but all he could see was a pale gleam as Glorfindel turned his head.

 'I am sorry, Galadriel, I know that you consider my grief to be immoderate, especially since he is your brother, but I...' his voice choked into silence. Galadriel led him away

 'Come, my friend, remember what he himself would say concerning the power of wine to heal the spirit.' Glorfindel laughed softly 'He did, did he not... you are right, of course. Lead the way, my lady.'

 

  
******************************************************************************************

 

  
  After second breakfast the next day, Frodo found Elrond leaning over the stern. It was a bright, breezy day, there had been dolphins earlier, which had drawn the elves, singing, to the railings; to hail the sleek, spouting forms flashing through the air and sparkling water. The timbers of the ship creaked as the wind stretched them, ropes slapped against masts, sailors called their incomprehensible terms to each other, and another great sail billowed up a mast and filled with a great snap of taut canvas. When the flurry of activity had ceased, Frodo looked up at Elrond, who smiled warmly at him 

  
 'You have another question, young hobbit ?' he asked, and Frodo reddened slightly

 'You are so patient, my lord, and you know that I try to find the answers by myself in the library, but I think that this story has not been written down.' He looked at Glorfindel, almost level with them, alone up at the prow. Elrond nodded slowly 'It is Finrod that he loves.'

 Frodo was astonished; Finrod Felagund, a character so mythical that even Frodo found it hard to accept that he had walked Middle-Earth, the thought that not only did he exist, but that Glorfindel was waiting to see him again... He gaped at Elrond then suddenly remembered Galadriel

 'Her brother !' he exclaimed 'Finrod is her brother, she was talking to Glorfindel last night...'   
Elrond smiled

 'The truth is, Frodo, he is just as mythical to me as he is to you; he died to save the life of my great-grandfather. Without him, well, things would have been very different...'

 Frodo nodded, Finrod Felagund had always been his favourite of the old heroes, with his harp and his badge of golden flowers 'Golden flowers !' he exclaimed.

 Elrond smiled and nodded 'Yes, but you must ask Glorfindel himself to tell you the tale, for he knows it best.' Frodo looked cautiously at the tall, powerful elf, gripping the prow with white-knuckles; there was something of the lion about Glorfindel; the poise of the muscular body, the golden mane, secretly Frodo had always thought Glorfindel should have been the king of the elves, Elrond had always seemed to him to be more of a professor than a great leader. Glorfindel looked so much more like a king should look, and however charming he had been to Frodo, Frodo was still nervous of appearing foolish to him, which of course was inevitable. Worse still, he knew that Elrond could see all these thoughts flickering across his face.

  
 'Come, Frodo, I will ask him to speak of Finrod and you will listen.' Before Frodo could protest, Elrond had taken Frodo's small hand in his and led him across the deck.

 Glorfindel, looking tired but calmer, turned when Elrond hailed him, and smiled at Frodo.

 'No land yet ?' asked Elrond, Glorfindel waved a hand dismissively and looked at Elrond. 'Frodo is wondering why you cling to the prow...' said Elrond softly.

 Glorfindel nodded and looked down at Frodo, who had the sensation that a tremendous effort was being exerted to focus, not only on what Glorfindel's eyes saw, but on what his mind experienced. 

   
'Finrod...' said Glorfindel 'He awaits me in Valinor... I have endured more than six thousand years without him, but it was not until the very instant that the Ring was destroyed that I felt the full agony of separation.' he looked at Elrond, who kept his face expressionless 'I have wondered often since then whether the rings of the elves have not been used to guard more than places; to guard people, from themselves...'

  
Elrond sighed 'My family owes him a debt that can never be paid; without him, none of us would ever have been; it is barely worth asking whether he would wish to spare his beloved Glorfindel pain. Naturally we did all we could. ' Frodo could feel their eyes exchanging messages above his head and beyond his comprehension. Finally Elrond said 'It will soon be over. You know that he will be waiting.' He turned to Frodo 'The story is an old one to me, I will leave you to hear it from Glorfindel.' 

  
 Glorfindel looked at Frodo for a long moment then smiled and sat down. Frodo, as he scrambled up onto the bench that ran around the inside of the prow, saw Elrond, as he walked away, seem to stagger, and lean on a railing for a moment.

 'The old fool' Glorfindel muttered to himself 'He is in as much pain as I am; he has lost his wife, his daughter, his home and his ring, he has never even seen the Light and yet he would seek to give me of his own strength...'

 Frodo looked up at him, surprised. The elves were extremely reluctant to discuss the Light with mortals, ostensibly because mortal senses could not percieve it. But Gandalf, whom even Frodo had begun to call Mithrandir, had once explained that the elves feared a traitor could find a weakness and use it against them. Since that was all that he would say, Frodo felt no closer to understanding. But it did seem that the Light was closer to water than flame, that it could be hoarded or given, a solid, substantial thing. Frodo shook his head, it was more difficult to explain, Elrond had once said, than the concept of colour to one blind from birth, like trying to explain vision at all, and even then...

  
 Glorfindel stretched out his long legs, put his hands behind his head, then laughed shortly to himself 'You should have read the book I gave to Aragorn.' he said. Frodo looked up at him 'Before we left Gondor, I gave Aragorn a book, in two parts, half of which was my journal, in which I tried to write about how we met' his jaw clenched 'And how they separated us. The other half was the journal kept by Finrod, in Nargothrond, in which he too told our tale; and long letters that he wrote to me, knowing he could never send them, for Turgon took me into Gondolin and there I remained until the end, and none beyond its borders ever found it from without, save the Enemy, and that by treason. Finrod sought me for hundreds of years, while I dug in the earth like a dwarf, tunnelling through the mountain to get to him...' his voice tailed off.

  
Frodo felt a terrible pain of sympathy, remembering how Sam had been prepared to invade the Tower of Cirith Ungol alone to rescue him.

 'Poor Finrod.' he said finally. 'But how can I read the book if Aragorn has it ?'

 Glorfindel smiled 'Of course you cannot, I will tell you how it was, though alas, I am only a soldier, it would take a bard to tell it aright. A bard such as Finrod. ' He sighed and leaned forwards, resting his hands upon his knees. 'We met at Mereth Aderthad, by a pool at Eithel Ivrin...'  
***********************************************************************************


	31. The Last Ship ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel is reunited with Finrod

The Last Ship ii. - 

 

  
There came a day of grey clouds and squalls of rain. Frodo took refuge in the library under the stern deck, he was now fascinated with Finrod Felagund, and reading a third book about him. Excited cries came from on deck, Frodo darted to the door and rushed out. Overhead, an arrowhead of swans flew sedately by, on business of their own. Frodo suppressed a smile; devoted as he was to the elves, it was nice to see them looking up at something for once, and being completely ignored by them...

  
Elrond was at his side 'At last !' he said,

 Frodo looked up at him 'At last ?'.

Elrond smiled 'The swans do not fly far from land. We are bound for Alqualonde, the Swanhaven. They are as messengers, bringing news of journey's end.' He looked to the West, and Frodo realized that even Elrond felt trepidation at the approach of the unknown shore.

 From the crow's nest above came the delighted voice of the lookout

 'Land ! Land ahead !' Frodo rushed forwards with everyone else. Glorfindel, at his usual post, was almost trembling. He spared Frodo a swift dazzling smile, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining, Frodo was amazed at the transformation; the sunny Glorfindel of old had changed into something feverish, intense, driven...

 It was long before his hobbit eyes could see anything of the shore. Elves came and went, but Glorfindel stood like a carven figurehead, scarcely breathing, gripping the railing and staring fixedly at the widening green blur of land at the edge of sight. Mithrandir sat down by Frodo and glanced up at Glorfindel with a brief smile. 

 'Poor Glorfindel. Of course, if Finrod was in love with me, I expect that I would be standing at the prow myself.' Frodo looked at him in astonishment. Mithrandir smiled 'Finrod's mother called him "The Noldo". ' He looked curiously at Frodo 'The epitome, the definitive, the masterpiece. The exemplar.' he laughed to himself 'Poor Finrod. All he wanted was to make music, until he met Glorfindel, then all he wanted was Glorfindel. Everyone loved him; he was the sweetest, kindest, most understanding person of any kind I think I have ever met. My own patron, Nienna, he was her favourite too. Of course when he and Glorfindel met at Eithel Ivrin... By my beard ! I would have liked to witness that meeting. Many songs were sung of the pool and the golden flowers.' He sighed 'All gone, under the cold sea... But you may be in luck. If, as I suspect and Glorfindel hopes, Finrod is waiting on the shore, you will see a reunion of lovers who have been kept apart for more than six thousand years.' He smiled to himself 'Do you have a clean handkerchief ?'

 

*********************************************************************************************  
 

 

Hours later, after a leisurely stroll around the deck, Frodo found himself back at Glorfindel's side. He himself was beginning to feel the strained tension that seemed to vibrate through Glorfindel. The ship leaned into the wind, the steering groaned, Frodo's legs shifted his balance to compensate as the deck sloped under the heel of the fresh breeze. A headland to the south had begun to come into focus even for Frodo, there was a low cliff, a spit of sand, and pitched near the shoreline, a green pavillion. Frodo could just make out a pale-haired figure clad in a long green cloak.

 Galadriel appeared at his side and smiled down at him, then she too peered ahead, almost as eagerly as Glorfindel. Suddenly Glorfindel let out a strangled croak, Galadriel moved at the same time, crying 'Yes !' in an odd, teary voice. Glorfindel threw his head back and howled

 'Finrod !'

  
 Frodo saw the green-clad figure start, and a faint cry came across the water. Glorfindel was kicking his shoes off , Galadriel gripped his arm

 'Glorfindel, wait, the ship sails faster than you can swim !' Glorfindel threw off her arm but gripped the railing as if he would tear apart the sturdy oak with his bare hands.

 Frodo looked at the elf's hand, and at his own puny paw... Glorfindel had long, sinewy hands, golden as the rest of him; Frodo suddenly remembered his perception of a tree in Lothlorien, and saw Glorfindel in the same way, so strange to a hobbit, so deeply ancient, like a fabulous sea-creature suddenly rising from the mysterious darkness, as unknowable as the depths of Moria. 

  
Galadriel leaned forwards and smiled conspiratorially at Frodo 'Finrod is my favourite too, but if you ever tell anyone that I have told you this, I will deny it.'

 Frodo grinned at her 'I am longing to meet him !' he said with a laugh.

 There was a movement beside him and Glorfindel was gone. From above came the lookout's cry 'Elf in the water !' and the captain

 'Ready about !' 

  
But Galadriel cried 'No ! Glorfindel is swimming for shore !' The captain joined the crowd at the side, and there in the open sea was the golden head, surfacing halfway to the shore.

 'Belay that ! 'shouted the captain, 'Steady as she goes !' and the sailors returned to their preparations; for the voyage was over and the ship must be made ready for port. 

  
 On the beach the pale-haired figure cried 'Glorfindel !' and Glorfindel cut through the water faster than Frodo would have thought possible. On shore Finrod shrugged off his cloak and stood naked on the beach.

 Elrond muttered under his breath 'So, the tale is true then.'

 Galadriel smiled at him 'Oh yes, they were both naked when they met, just like Cuiviénen.'

 Glorfindel was striding through the shallows, he stripped his shirt off and fell to his knees on the sand in front of Finrod, then threw his arms round Finrod's waist and pulled him down into a passionate kiss.

  The Elves aboard the ship gave a great cheer, Elrond pressed the hand of Galadriel, but Frodo could not see the tears in her eyes, for he himself was weeping.


End file.
